Tekster:
Jet Crush On You

it's goin down, you know who got the flava We got the flava, the flava So bring it on, so bring it on, all you muthafuckin corns, yeah

the game, 'cuz she the business Type of chick that love you to death, then leave no witness Killa, I call you Killa 'cuz you slay me Killa, you murda, mami? Ooh, you

I'll pass ya 1999, octane because I gassed ya Watch me George Jet on you, son, like I'm NASA Goddamn, like to compare on blaster It's the sound effect

blunt three in the morning you take to the head I'm that car that you snatched when you first got bread I'm that spot that you got when you was runnin

gonna have her Lay her like a cornerback On her back, on the mat Found out that you wanna act We ran through her, you want her back? Come on wit that, you

Shaolin slang, that'll crush the shit you bring) I watch your ass take a big fall, why?! My Main Source, is like a friendly game of stickball And as you

cell, push him off a bridge, burn his body until pale, man you think you know him, man you think you know him, Jesus bout show em, how his cruck is spilling

Yo, crushed grills, dollar bills, swiss suit on Screw on dry sell nigga with his loot on Watch this, gun glock less, fiends scopin' out my rock shit Diamond on

make nothin' more difficult Blood starts gushin' when I kick your skull What you lookin' at punk you don't know me from Adam And you have the nerve to step on