FLESH-N-BONE featuring Afta Maff

Hey, let me hear that first.  Nineteen-ninety Afta.  Cleveland up in this muthafucka.  
Afta Maff up in this muthafucka, bitch.  Flesh-N-Bone.

Son of a bitch, you'll be runnin' up all the time, tryin' to test my hood.  I'm chillin' up in my hood up to no good.  Punk bitch, I wish you would, and flippin' the script, and pop in my clip, and puttin' my pump-pump on ya, and lettin' you see the fire in my eyes, and now that ass is a fuckin' goner.  You can run up, gun up, and try to test me at will.  I'm fillin' you playa haters with nothin' but favors, so bitch, you be guardin' your grill for real.  My niggas got no fame, it's breakin' you son-of-a-bitches off.  You fuckin' around with the big boss, and I always got my Nina Ross, ain't catchin' a nigga slippin' up at the lights, so don't trip, and takin' a hit of the sticky-sticky as I unload my clip, and thuggin' up in the Land, and ya know we straight hustlas, and never to be no bustas, and (?) say fuck ya.
Kam-, Kam-, Kamikaze, come, come, come, come down.  
Niggas better not slippin', come again, (?) niggas better not slip when I'm up to no good. 
Kam-, Kam-, Kamikaze, come, come, come, come.

Afta Maff's comin' down your ass with the aerial strike, body snatchin' me (?), and deadly close and copper stress, gettin' away is slight, and I ask myself what's the reason for that treason that you committed.  Open up killin' season, now it's time to get your fuckin' wig splitted.  Playa haters be makin' me relax into a dead spell again.  Somebody should have told them fuckin' with the Mo Thug your life expectancy ends.  Murder, like adrenaline, puts a physcotic thought through my brain waves, muder mo, welcome to the terror-dome, flashbacks of me diggin' graves, torturin' slaves in the days, losin' my grip on reality, paranormal combat, hollow points always givin' me a flawless fatality.  Even bustin' at shadows is a muthafucka's (?).  Lettin' Kamikaze and Flesh-N-Bone decapitatin' you bitches' dome with the chrome and infrared scan.  To stick clear is a safety tip.  From the docks to the Clair, me and my and niggas is emptyin' clips [clips, clips, clips, clips, clips, clips, clips, clips].
[Inserting of clips, cocking of gun, gunshots.]

You niggas pop off at the mouth, time to stop or shots drop they ass.
Make 'em shut up they lip when we empty the clip on the Double Glock.
Trouble, now:  Flesh and the Afta Maff.

Look out, my niggas, can't go when drop down my time.  Time to get it, hit it, grindin' on the double nine, find plenty ways to get the money, me money, 'cause then I'm a splurge on my kind, sippin' on a fifth of Rose wine.  Yeah, the Flesh-N-, the Flesh-N-muthafuckin' Bone.  Gettin' my tipsy on strong, always stay packin' that chrome.  Hopped in the (?) headed for the north, swerve, thug stroll, seventeenth up and against the ground, repeated the MAC-11, let a sound.  Kick, pump rounds, spit off my rounds, hop on my block, gotta get this click, but they're stickin' their guns to me, thought that they got me, but I'm not, see, murder (...?...) that glock pop pop bullets, empty out the clips, feel no sympathy for the people that I'm buckin'.  They lay.  Put 'em in a grave.  Away they stay shot the fuck up, when my niggas they spray.  Should he pray to be saved?  Hell yeah, but still no one came to your rescue.  Pop a lip on my corner, nigga, you's a goner.  Mo Thug be the niggas who test you, put you to rest, fool, and there ain't nothin' you can do to stop me from makin' this call up to my dogs, racin' over with the heat and makin' sure that you takin' a fall.  All y'all want fuck with Flesh and the Afta Maff, then well, learnin' my lesson with this Wesson.  I'm a empty the clip on my weapon if a playa hater want to keep on stressin'.

Murder mo, murder mo . . .
Mo murda, mo murda, come come again.

Come on, tell ya can't feel the Afta Maff, 'cause your lies gettin' larger by the seconds, and ain't
snatched but then (...?...) while your soul slowly gets reincarnated, but it's evident you heard the possibilities, but you was over-estimated, and you expected me to look deep in your eyes and bow down to scandalous way, but see survival be one of the reasons thugs be packin' their shit for protection.  When situations are life and death, a real true gon' result to elimination.  For instance, I'm on the block, servin' stones to dope fiends, droppin' them dubs down 'til this knucklehead, wannabe thug tried to test my nuts for the showdown, so I grabbed my security blanket, nigga.  My man, let's deal now with the pearl handles, spit out them hollow point tips, 'cause they're still rollin' for me, and now they aimin' for me, but my bitch, Nina Ross, is so freaky she started penetratin'.  See, niggas be thinkin' they got the game--all sewed up and ready maintain.  I'm pullin' the trigger to blow out your brain.  Now, I told ya, Mo Thug was insane.  Soldiers ride against the terror.

[Cocking of gun.  Emptying of clip.

"Empty The Clip" Lyrics
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WasteLand Lyrics: The Art of Bone.  
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