Crippled Souls Productions - Pure Hell (Street) lyrics

[Intro: The Bad Seed and Pumpkinhead] The Bad Seed: No doubt. So what's what? Pumpkinhead: What's the deal? The Bad Seed: Know'm saying? n***as is eye-spooning Pumpkinhead: Spit The Bad Seed: n***as got a lot of problems right now Pumpkinhead: They gel The Bad Seed: But let me tell you something Pumpkinhead: What's up? The Bad Seed: '98 got gunned down with two 9s Pumpkinhead: Uh huh. Yeah The Bad Seed: Two 9s. I'm glad that n***a laying on his back. I'm glad that n***a dead Pumpkinhead: Yeah The Bad Seed: So it's official now. This that official sh** right here Pumpkinhead: Alright. No doubt The Bad Seed: Makin' motherf**ing Records Pumpkinhead: About to get rowdy up in here The Bad Seed: We ‘bout to put y'all heads out like back in the day. What? Pumpkinhead: Yeah, yeah, see y'all n***as [Verse 1: The Bad Seed] Fortunately, my life's much different from flossing 50s Peace to my sister—drink out the same faucet with me Born and raised in the ghetto, moved out, still ghetto Even outside the ghetto, I still feel ghetto Peace to n***as who steal whips and bust-they-steel ghetto And all outlaws be on the train, real ghetto From BK to wherever you at, we're transmitting For the real n***as, 730s beating advanced visits Unorthodox like Sam Fisher. In a fight My hands glisten golden. f** that 2-5 you holding Smack you double vision like Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen Them little b**hes can't f** around or fiddle with this Drank the seven seas and started a war Put you in the middle of this, whoever is a witness If they run, hit them with this. A demon could twist Like vanilla ditches. Break your leg, sell you crutches You ain't never sold no crack, you gets no dap You watched your moms smoking dope, eyes closed, open nose From the story, you probably way out like the poker nose Got the brother thinking that you wiling out, locino Ain't work out how you was hoping though. Seen through Your broken flow. It's Bad Seed—you ain't know? See the world through the side of my eyes. I see it The difference is y'all n***as talk about it while I be it Label type conceited, big-dick style—never beat it I dick your girl out, watch her sweat her curls out Blow her whole world out in a home girl's house Put the toast to her mouth, tell her, “Take the pearls out Hand the ice over.” Tie her up when the heist is over Burn a spliff so I don't go through the night sober Party over, pa** the L, hand the Bacardi over Amazing the distance a double-barrel shottie throw ya [Hook: The Bad Seed, Jean Grae, and Pumpkinhead] Yo, we spit bars of pure hell Broke, don't rock ice with j**els Sk** don't equal what you sell Life we see through your crew's tales News flash: pay your dues, your crew's gas Splash, f** who's live and who's a** Yo, we spit bars of pure hell Yo, we spit bars of pure hell [Verse 2: Pumpkinhead] Pistol pop a opera phantom, my style Iran Contra, jungle guerrilla getting skrilla Cop-k**er, d**h rap. You want to test, black? I'll put your head in the ground. Y'all is battery-packed Giving feminine pounds. Four rounds of loud sounds Astounds crowds. I press down clouds and make ‘em bow down I hold the crown with a j**el encrusted in my left wrist Rhyme d**h wish, restless. Get the message? I'm like a poisonous scorpion from the desert Estimated time of d**h in five seconds Fist to the North Star, divine presence. I got the glow Of the sun. Number one. With a gat tucked in My cummerbunds, so run. Sipping tequila and rum Leaving you numb, I got no words. I got gats slapping your gums I'm just flashing them guns, make you cash in your funds Give it up or get stuck. I ain't asking you, son I'm telling you, propelling you when it's time to rock My rhyme is co*ked, blast and pop, make your body do a bunny hop You can't slow me, ock. I'm too hot Like the taste y'all crew got. Stab your right arm like a flu shot You p**y-happy rappers are fronting Big Will's stature Dancing in videos like it don't matter Your bones shatter. Kamikaze chrome-clapper Yo, I got no time for the laughter Now, I'm ‘bout to close the chapter, n***a Original Blunted, Dutch Masters riding 'til the day after We riding 'til the day after, spitting bars of pure hell [Hook: The Bad Seed, Jean Grae, and Pumpkinhead] Yo, we spit bars of pure hell Broke, don't rock ice with j**els Sk** don't equal what you sell Life we see through your crew's tales News flash: pay your dues, your crew's gas Splash, f** who's live and who's a** Yo, we spit bars of pure hell Yo, we spit bars of pure hell [Verse 3: Jean Grae] Jean Grae, n***a, chop your throat, switch your pitch up I'll roll bicoastal, take your man, snatch your b**h up Yakuza's the hit—motherf**ers, this a stick up That leave n***as bucking the rain with their dick up “f** it” the catch phrase. Robe of cash' Pais' Smoke from ashtrays, tote for last days Choke you with both chains, slice with sharp blades The f**, no strings, no exchanging last names I'll live a lush life, shot-drinking with the knife Catch me at the bar sloppy drunk on all nights Tongue aim, spit precise. Hot game with no dice Stay chill and plain while these hoes blow for ice Low-price chicks, vice-dick-gripping chicks. Christ Gotta call the Lord for 'em, bring the sword for 'em Slice twice: one through the heart, one through the brain One strictly for the pleasure, one for pain Remain on top. I'm like a smacked vein on top Drug is rhymes—watch the way I'm doing these lines The crew does crimes, where bloody hands keep mine clean Play the black, rather be the brains plotting the scheme Drop your team six feet in the ground. You getting ambushed Guerrillas attack from Japan to Flatbush Worldwide, hotter than the drug your man pushed News flash, n***a, f** another damn hook