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DJ Paul Talking
Verse 1: DJ Paul
I comes from a city where they love to hate, especially on that Triple Six
They see we really got Bentley's and Benz's and they hate the s**t
They try to come up over us, the radio even help em' at it
But yall ain't got no flows, so hang it up you silly rabbits
I'ma keep on hurting you boys, by making this motherfkin' world rock
Side to fkin' silence b*tch for years and man we still ain't stop
Still ridin' clean, makin' cheese and carrying plastic glocks
And please don't try to test us cuz you know we'll let these girls pop
On you hoes, you haters, you really like us
Cuz if you thank us, then you wouldn't try to sound so much like us
I'm the K-I-N-G of that M-P-H-M-S (Memphis)
H-C-P, to the E-N-D, others gone be less
Come prepared, man I swear they wanna be down with my team
Don't let the s**t talkin' on them CD's fool you
That ain't what they really mean
The truth can hurt so bad so look in they faces when you play us
And watch how they look, and watch they jaw drop to the pavement
nigg*
Chorus: DJ Paul
Why yall Test My Gangsta
These girls Test My Gangsta
Repeat 8x
Cuz it's on now
nigg* yeah it's on now
Repeat 4x
Verse 2: Lord Infamous
nigg* don't you know that Lord can make your life a living hell
And I mean that literally, the place where demon spirits dwell
Empty all the buck-shot shells, make your fking body smell
I can fk you up somewhere, to where you were they cannot tell
fk me with me, you fking with the best
nigg* so all you fking with the wrong one
I will hit you with the milli-milli gun, got a millimeter gun
Blow out ya lungs
Like them old I-Tal-Ians, Mafia, devil son
When you see me coming, better run for fking cover bum
(BLITE!) AK, SK, .44, Tre-8
This body kinda heavy, D.O.A., air away
b*tch you better take notes, 'fo you end up cut-throat
And ya on the ground bro', with your fkin' shirt soaked
Ini-Mini-Miny-Mo, blow a nigg* out his clothes
Come out the trench-coat with a Sawed-Off, and lay me down a hoe
So if you think ScareCrow ain't a gangsta come and test the waters
You will be de-slaughtered, the dearly departed
Chorus
Verse 3: Crunchy Black
Why you wanna test my gangsta?
Don't make a nigg* run up and shank ya
Or put some cement in yo s**t and sank ya
Or make you shoot yourself and then I'm thankin' ya
Throw tile over round your throat and drag ya cuz
Get nothing from me, but gangsta love
No testin' me my nigg*, have you laying in blood
Or dig you a grave, cut ya b*tch as* up
Verse 4: Juicy-J
(Yeah Hoe!) repeated throw the verse
You be trying to test, I ain't no slouch
I squeeze my fkin' fist, my nig', I break the law
I call out a hit my nig', I make the fall
The handle with the blood trig', is all they saw
'Fo yo ugly face was down, on the ground
A barrel pointed at your frown, with hollow rounds
I bet ya wanna run and s**t, it's too late now
You shouldn't have been runnin' ya lip, to make me clown
b*tch!
Chorus