Talkin' About Practice? Songtext
von Da$H
Talkin' About Practice? Songtext
You best practice
Practice, talkin′ about practice?
Talkin' about practice?
You′re in a house, maybe your own
Maybe one you've never seen before
You feel it, something evil
You run, but there's no escape
Nowhere to turn
Yo, yo, yo
Quit talkin′ that shit, still walkin′ that shit
Yo, yo, yo
Don't know what the fuck niggas thought
Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo
I know niggas 16 that′s pumpin' two hundred cracks a day
That′s a rack a day, you do it right
I told 'em keep the tool at night
Trife livin′ what I'm built on
The money real tall like it got stilts on
You know the streets cold, go put your quilt on
I get you killed off a consignment pack
Now, nigga, tell me if your pride worth it
Catch me with your wife lurkin'
Some city, doin′ the side block
Gettin′ sucked through my boxer briefs
They see me and they spot a chief
Bumpin' Bootsy Collins in a guava feet, you niggas know who it is
Might wheelie the bike through the opp block
The clique construction workers by the way we chop rock
You′d think it's Notre Dame, I′m hunchback over a plate of 'caine
I′m tryna make it twerk like Miley Cyrus
In the field to find some dirt to dive in
My phone jumpin' out the gym
I'm finna pull up like 007, the bitches know it′s him
It′s no mistakin', hardly take it lightly
The drugs is harder than a right from Tyson taken nightly
I ain′t polite, don't assume so
The .40 on my belt, so I suggest that you move slow
With two hoes whose faces in the magazines
Pack of thieves who I roll with, maintain control of this shit
Who let these broke niggas in? We need a toll in this bitch
Two-steppin′ with the devil and she fine
Only thing I'm thinkin′, should I make her mine?
Wine and dine her, tryna get behind her
Remind her I'd do anything for the commas
I'm a mobster to the bone marrow
Corleone′s son, he grippin′ on the .44 handle
Bag the shit, just what I'm makin′, all the money's what I′m takin'
All you pussy niggas doin′s really fakin' the style
Fuck you thought?
Robbin' shit, bag the extras
Doin′ dumbass shit
And then I just cut my hair and turn back into Da$H
Every time, that′s what happen
Practice, talkin′ about practice?
Talkin' about practice?
You′re in a house, maybe your own
Maybe one you've never seen before
You feel it, something evil
You run, but there's no escape
Nowhere to turn
Yo, yo, yo
Quit talkin′ that shit, still walkin′ that shit
Yo, yo, yo
Don't know what the fuck niggas thought
Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo
I know niggas 16 that′s pumpin' two hundred cracks a day
That′s a rack a day, you do it right
I told 'em keep the tool at night
Trife livin′ what I'm built on
The money real tall like it got stilts on
You know the streets cold, go put your quilt on
I get you killed off a consignment pack
Now, nigga, tell me if your pride worth it
Catch me with your wife lurkin'
Some city, doin′ the side block
Gettin′ sucked through my boxer briefs
They see me and they spot a chief
Bumpin' Bootsy Collins in a guava feet, you niggas know who it is
Might wheelie the bike through the opp block
The clique construction workers by the way we chop rock
You′d think it's Notre Dame, I′m hunchback over a plate of 'caine
I′m tryna make it twerk like Miley Cyrus
In the field to find some dirt to dive in
My phone jumpin' out the gym
I'm finna pull up like 007, the bitches know it′s him
It′s no mistakin', hardly take it lightly
The drugs is harder than a right from Tyson taken nightly
I ain′t polite, don't assume so
The .40 on my belt, so I suggest that you move slow
With two hoes whose faces in the magazines
Pack of thieves who I roll with, maintain control of this shit
Who let these broke niggas in? We need a toll in this bitch
Two-steppin′ with the devil and she fine
Only thing I'm thinkin′, should I make her mine?
Wine and dine her, tryna get behind her
Remind her I'd do anything for the commas
I'm a mobster to the bone marrow
Corleone′s son, he grippin′ on the .44 handle
Bag the shit, just what I'm makin′, all the money's what I′m takin'
All you pussy niggas doin′s really fakin' the style
Fuck you thought?
Robbin' shit, bag the extras
Doin′ dumbass shit
And then I just cut my hair and turn back into Da$H
Every time, that′s what happen
Writer(s): Darien Corey Dash Jr., Scott Arceneaux Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com