Creepin' up outta the woods, gotta give love to my hood.  Smoke, and I choke, and I creep on a come up.  Niggas be tryin run up, but I bust, and they drop to their death.  Now they done up.  Gun up, hunt my blunt up.  Creepin' 'til sun up, feelin' slightly shady.  Call me lightweight crazy, number one nigga little Layzie.  Nigga don't wanna fight, runnin' deadly thugsta soldiers, droppin' them thangs.  Bone done told ya.  Testin' nuts, so a nigga gonna have to show ya.  Faded a nigga that stepped up.  Let's slip in some shit.  See 'em alls just stood up then put a foot up that ass, had  to blast that click-click.  Sprayed the gauge, all cocked, and ready to spray down to the pave.  Puttin' them souls up off in them graves, dwell in Hell, they'll all lay slayed.  Amazed, must I blaze.  It's insane when I take that bud to the brain.  Toke, choke, holdin' me smoke until-a me strained, feelin' no pain.  Better be packin' your weapon, 'cause my shit is kept and I'm ready to let loose sawed-off hangin', danglin' up under the trench, fin to blow that chest, but you shoulda wore a vest, fool, 'cause the Bone don't front.  Nigga check or get wrecked.  Got Flesh on the set, with his finger on a TEC, loc'd out with the khakis and high techs.  Respect them St. Clair thugs hustlin' drugs, gotta make that money, man.  Rap be the thang, and the fact remains that we owns that rap game.

Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thang.
Bone be me gang.

We runnin' with no hoes, and the bigger Bone that's known for gettin' his swerve on and kickin' it on the stage.  (Off in the rag), gettin' my serve on.  So, leave 'em alone.  They come.  They need to be shown that Bone done chrome, blown, lay slugs up in to them domes, so go on.  You'd rather go run a ho check, if you wanna test nuts with Flesh, I'm feelin' to lynch ya, mo murda.  You're runnin' up eye to eye with death.  Praise the Flesh, now nevertheless you're takin' a loss, and this slug snuffed up, and dumpin' the body up off in a coffin.  Remember the vow said a preacher, me teach 'em, (winnin'/greetin') 'em with me nine, runnin' with thugs and hustlas and murderin' 'em every time.

Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thang.
Bone be me gang.

Remember the Ripsta, sinster creeper, reapin' up that set with a street-sweeper.  Gotta take a breather from sippin' me liter.  Rippin' that flesh when I sneak with a meat cleaver.  When I'm in me smug, never the studio thugsta.  Buck 'em.  Buck 'em.  Motherfuck 'em.  Thug never done bluff and fuck them bustas.  So back up off me.  No stack won't let me slip.  When a nigga start to step, the weapon, put 'em in the graveyard.  Bitch, better buy your vest, then test Rest, the Ripsta, quick to pick up the hollow points and put 'em up in your brains, nigga.  My little nigga, Mo! Hart, my bigger nigga, Sin, dash fast, get up with the block at last blast they ass, pass cash, then stash, me can killa for free for homies and family.  Tell 'em to see me, that realer nigga, the Ripsta, put 'em in rivers.  It don't stop.  Drop P's to the SCT's and double glock.  Pop.  Pop.  Here's the slug from the twelve gauge thug.  You don't want fuck with, no buck with, Rip's breakin' 'em bustas.  Blood, me fillin' 'em (...?...) me murder.  I show no mercy.  Turn your back, clack back me gat, diggin' 'em in the dirt, see.

Get ready to duck, bitch, or get fucked up.  They never could fuck with me sawed-off pump.  Bitch, if I'm flippin' or load my clip in, nigga, y'all all fucked.  Gotta make my money, slippin' me pump in my trench, and then click it.  Now, nigga, it's rippin', steady clippin', not missin', thuggin' with me click, and now Leatherface takin' your life so ya best stay back, tossin' the rest in a coffin, 'cause niggas be runnin' up, talkin' trash.  Buck a guard while walkin' past.  Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thangs, and I claim and hang with Ts, niggas that make cheese for the green leaves.  Gotta give peace, 'cause they swang these.  Come, nigga, meet my hood and fulla nothin' but thugs and hustlas:  Sin never been no busta, he'll stuff and buck-buck 'em and dump 'em, bitch.  Nigga, muthafuck 'em, Krayzie don't love 'em, put 'em to rest and run, so the po-po don't catch up--nigga can't be arrested.  One M-11 me sendin' niggas to hell, and you're feelin' 187.  Eleven dwellin' better from the cell, and nigga that pick up Mossberg, the quicker you to the curb.  Put one to the temple, pump, to Mr.  Policeman.  That's all you heard.

Bang, bang, gotta get down for my thang.
Bone be me gang.
Bang, bang, bang, bang.

"Down Foe My Thang" Lyrics
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WasteLand Lyrics: The Art of Bone.  
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