Dump, Bust, Blast Lyrics - E-40

Uh (Uh) 

Come on, ai, ai Boskeezy? 

Ai, my, my, turn it up (burps) 

Hey Boskeezy? Hey that shit right there, ay 

(talk to my wepolations), that shit. 

That's ibeen? That shit smibeen that shit ibeen? 

That shit smibeen, ooh (ooh) 

4: 15 showcasing to the max 

Got my truckamajig free racing causing anxiety attacks 

Pitch black normal tint BOOM BAP! 

Fucked around and overheated my Zues amp 

500, oh the hoes, fuck a ho 

These are the thing that, uh, you need to know 

Bust him open spin open the duct tape and the foil 

Eat the rest and get a pot and let 'em boil 

Bullet proof vest never confess keep a bucket full of acid 

1-800-888 zippers-on-tastic 

Clinetel, raise 'em high raise 'em low 

Out on bail everybody hit the floor 

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Chorus: 

Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust, 

Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust (ooh!) 

Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust, 

Dump, Bust, (BEOTCH!) Blast 

Slurp slip, deep throat shit I'm outta sight 

I like to get my dick sucked in - broad daylight 

Acting bad on the soil acting tough 

Break your ass down like a 12-gauge and call yo' bluff 

Ignore a fool, that's what they holler 

Snatch his bootsy ass up by the collar 

Law enforcement agents got me and my dudes up under investigation 

We hot like jalapenos 

Man, how come niggas can't put their money together like Philipinos? 

I suppose, can you bring him back? 

He was one of them enemies that tried to participate 

in Swiss Cheezin' my clean ass Cadillac 

My Cadillac, My Pontiac I mean 

My under bucket hoopty parked on magazines 

Photos 

Chorus: 2x 

Check it out (check it out) 

Third verse, let's begin lets be gone 

I done served more water than, uh, Evian 

Posted up like a thumbtack on the boulevard serving dead 

Yola, ice cream, Ben and Jerry (Jer) 

I've been doing somethings, cigars and pinky rings 

I'm a fixture up in this shit like E-40 and the Click 

Paper all up under my box spring matress choppers on top of the fridge 

Automatics in the kitchen cabinets man I kill a motherfucker over mathematics 

Haters gonna hate, but they don't count nigga hustle 

The dope game runs on two thing (what's that?) money and muscle 

Do some gotti, fourth of July your party 

Laid his "supposed to be so called hardest nigga in your town" 

ass down in front of everybody 

Chorus: (with three overdubbed tracks of random talking)