Whoridin'
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Lyrics
Yeah, this the Murg One, you know what I'm sayin'?
In here with my little brother and
My cousin, you know what I'm sayin'?
What y'all talkin' about?
Who ride with me? King Sy and Mr. T
Out the clock G, Major League with my Foleys
Another word for you real folks, not your homies, Mike
Smokin' dang and dank, ain't trippin' on no drank right now
I'm mashin' with the low brow, my son choppin' like a plow
As I lay niggas down, twist the concrete
Playa hater, don't make a move until I tell you to
Tougher than a Ginsu, runnin' through you like a wet paper bag
Break your ass to fill up my blank pad
Flow paper, flow not like Joe
But I can hit skyscrapers if it's for my skrillo
Now all I need is one more fully automatic
And my bigger brother, Red G, and that's how we be like...
Who, who? Who ridin'? (King Sy) Who ridin'?
Who ridin'? (King Sy) Who ridin'?
Who ridin'? (King Sy) Who ridin'?
Who ridin'? (King Sy) Who ridin'?
Uh, who ridin' with my Foleys?
No key needed to kick shit, we freak shits
Hobo hormones on the porno, blowin' the flow like masters on the duel
Delay is not butter or parquet, it's knockin'
The sound is poundin', break it off like broken guts
I'm like Abstract Rude, I'm Ron Reep out on the coconuts
But... sir jackets and World Cups and Falcons
Where I sprout from, the Westside
Of the city of dope, who ridin' 'til I dilate?
No antidote, ain't no denyin' who ridin' straight, straight, straight
Who ridin'? Who ridin'? (Yeah)
Who ridin'? (Mr. Taylor) Who ridin'?
Who ridin'? Who ridin'? (What you gon' do?)
Who we ridin' on next? (You)
Text that I suggest describes us the best (What?)
So I guess those foes don't suppose we pack Glocks
But if they don't, well, fuck it, I son chop
Shit get scary, 'cause my move bearish
Two minds, one time on the liquor's necessary
To have shit planned, worked at the same time, talked about, no doubt
In the process, I may let some frustration out
To get back, fuck that, hey
Hey, player, give me that scratch before
I peel that cap smack dab in the middle
This ain't no riddle 'cause the look on your griller
Is one like a scared bitch huggin' a pillow
On the frillo, no fab, no drag
Real who riders don't do shit and brag
Smoke a joint and laugh, hit the flipside (Mr. Taylor)
Get that stripe, you have to have that Taylor Made, who ride live
Yeah, this the who riders, you know what I'm sayin'?
Severe, Sauce and Nomad
Representin' for the Hobo Junction, you know what I'm sayin'?
Niggas ain't know it, but they about to though
For sure, King Sy, Mr. Taylor
Who riders... who gotcha
Who ridin'? (King Sy) Who ridin'?
Who ridin'? (King Sy) Who ridin'?
Who ridin'? (King Sy) Who ridin'?
Who ridin'? (King Sy) Who ridin'?