Оригинален текст
Intro (Alternating between Paul Wall and Juelz Santana)
Baby
Juelz Santana
Boy Paul Wall
Yea, I mean I know theres a lotta haters on yo side
Ya, ya, ya I know they over there hatin on yo side too
Oh yeah, but you know we dont give a fk about them
fk em
Chorus
We dont give a fk about you
We tote big guns, front, well pop you
We be creepin through ya hood
Creepin through ya hood
We be mad slow, Mean mug
Creepin through ya hood
Juelz Santana
Im down and Im dirty with this
Im down to get dirty, ya b*tch
Aw man, aw d*mn, the pound is just hurtin my hip
fk with me Ill show ya how them pounds and birdies get flipped
Play around clown, youll get found in the dirtiest ditch
He like, Yall dont give a fk about who? (Bout who)
Im like, We dont give a fk about you. (Bout you)
Hat low to the front
Lean back smokin a blunt
A! See that button? Hit that, dope in the trunk
Nope coke in the trunk, nope both in the trunk
Up, that gun is on my hip too, I be hopin you stunt
You dont want my creepin through ya hood
You dont want my creepin through ya wood
You dont wanna see that pistol in ya face
Homeboy, you dont want my creepin leavin with ya goods
So dont play like that (dont)
Dont act like that (dont)
If you aint like that, you know,
Chorus
Paul Wall
I got them windows tinted five percent
Presidential limo tint
I can see you, but you cant see me
223 with extended clip
Them 50 shots gon set it off
Its a fire drill, b*tch drop an roll
Gimme dat watch, Gimme dat chain
Empty them pockets and pay the toll
I hang wit killers out on parole
Catch ya cut, run and hide
Evacuate, murder for hire
Kinda like ol barb from the wire
Well chop you up like garlic cloves
and cook ya as* like emmeril the chef
Take ya last breath, put on ya vest
But im aimin at ya head boy, not ya chest
I pack the nine, I start to dine
Hit them legs and crease ya up
Then I hit the spot wit a bad b*tch
they'll slob the kn*b and piece me up
And when you wake up in the mornin
To the sounds of them choppas roarin
Ill wear the heat just like Alonzo
And leave ya whole family in mournin
Im in the hood, like wig shops
Im on the grind, on the block
Posted up like Yao Ming
In the low post, Im on the box
Well chop ya up like a screw tape
and have ya hollerin like the opera
but when my sidekick goin off
I aint talkin bout no T-mobile partna
Chorus
