Juicy J - Ain't Allowed Where I'm From (feat. Project Pat & Driicky Graham) | Текст песни

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• Juicy J
• Ain't Allowed Where I'm From (feat. Project Pat & Driicky Graham)

[Intro: Juicy J]
Trippy Nation nigga
Young Ced on the beat, watch these snitches mane

[Hook x2: Juicy J]
These nigga's dropping dimes, they some real snitches
The only dimes that I ever dropped was some bitches
I’ma cut some fingers, I’ma clip some tongues
Cause all that point in talkin' ain’t allowed where I’m from

[Verse 1: Juicy J]
Nigga stuck off in the fare, fucking with them bricks
His partners put them laws on him, over a bitch
These pussy nigga's scared, don’t wanna take they charge
They swear they hard but they softer then cotton balls (ho)
Real nigga's go to jail and don’t tell them nothing (true)
Do that time, come back home then get back to hustling (true)
We got everything for sale, but the kitchen sink (true)
Keep my eyes on you snakes, I don’t even blink (bitch)
Boy you scared, you gonna tell them white folks everything (yes sir)
To cut your time, you gonna give up errybody name (pussy)
Snitching nigga you ain’t straight, them folks gonna find you dead
Cut your tongue out your mouth and put one in ya head

[Hook x2]

[Verse 2: Project Pat]
The bigger the gun, the bigger the slug
The bigger the hole for doc to plug
Holdin' your head, I put you to sleep
Body not found, mama gon’ weep
Droppin the dime and runnin your mouth
Nowhere to run, down in the south
Meet ya wrong, I hop on the phone
Goons on route, burners out
You screamin' pig, I blow up your wig
Vocals smokin' just like a cig
Blowin' on kush and sippin' on hen
Forgive me father for your sin
Meet ya wrong, I'm able again
Convicted felon, back in the pen
Pistol in face, you wit attention
They goin' for twelve, I got em for ten
He threw me them bowls, he knew I'm a boss
He looking for bread, he know that’s a loss
I cross em a corn, mixed somethin' me deal
And separate the fact from the real
You play the cards, bet you a deal
Behind them bars, now you gon’ squeal
You playin' these streets, we playin' for real
Jail come wit it, swallow that meal

[Hook x2]

[Verse 3: Driicky Graham]
Prime time snitchin' lies, got line twistin' guys
Take the clip to make a flick no blind side or district 9
Trying to dodge prison time, all die for fishin' by
Smith and 9's (pow pow pow), if you mention mines
One: put you in a scope, two: clack then it's smoke
Three. scoop you up and put ya body in a envelope
Four: send yo folks jus ya head, chest, guts
Now you leakin' body stinkin' up the Fed Ex truck
And that fed pressure, makes the snitches wanna roast you
They start droppin dimes like they coins miss the toll booth
God as my witness man I swear to tell the whole truth
Where I'm from we gets it done and act like we don't know dude

[Hook x2]


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