Blacksox Lyrics - West Coast Resurrection - Game

(feat. Bluechip, JT) 

(JT) 

Another G-Man Stan production 

The originator of this 808 shit in the Bay area 

You got your boy JT the Bigga Figga 

thuggin it out with my young nigga the Game, and my homey Bluechip 

Blacksox, oh boy! Hooked up with Get Low Records 

Puttin this shit together, my nigga 

It ain't a nigga in the game that could hold me down 

I've been independent forever so they know me now 

And I'm the cat they gotta find when they wanna get signed 

You wanna get your paper right you gotta study my grind 

I'm like Rush in "Krush Groove," a nigga that bust moves 

right out, and tuck tools, bullets that bust dudes 

Ain't no beef in the briefcase, just beef for Pete's sake 

We round up cats, to beat 'em in a street race 

We count paper up, to make a nigga change his plans 

They under weight so they ain't gettin off they gram 

You mad at my boys, cause we choppin 'em in 

They make twenty then the Fig want 10 

That's the rules that the Get Low, play by 

The block boys stay high, California stock with K-5 

It's the rules that the Get Low play by 

Them block boys stay high, the California K-5 

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(Chorus: The Game) 

Huh, it's the Blacksox doin a joint together 

The whole world stoppin to listen, ol' breakers poplockin to this 

And white boys headboppin in 6's, niggaz boxin in prison 

Shit bang hard like a conjugal visit 

And the game ain't big enough for niggaz so move over 

Matter fact, move out, we takin over 

Them boys is comin, and they aimin straight for the neck 

The B-L-A, C-K, S-O-X 

(Bluechip) 

Yo, yo, well it's the B dot L dot, you know the rest 

Wanted by the feds, hated by the ATF 

You can catch me at the DuPont Inn, two dykes swallowin gin 

Shorty sucked me out of my Timbs 

My bad, that's your wife? Fuck your life 

Anyway I heard you workin for vice 

You ain't real man you hide behind ice 

Youse a impostor, snatch him off the roster 

Always live by the rule, get dough, or die tryin 

Hardcoded into shinin 

Pass the bucket now I'm back on bet it 

If, beef was erased man my tool gon' finish 

Never been the loudmouth type 

Sugar Shane of this rap shit, southpaw when the mac spit 

Listen rookie, don't make me mad boy 

Or you gon' be like Big, a dead (Bad Boy) 

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(Chorus) 

(The Game) 

Huh, niggaz think they got the game sewed, yeah right 

I'm air tight, fresh in them Air Nikes 

If the Navi outside, I might be there 

Black hoodie, black 9, black wifey airs 

Rock guns like Caddy trunks, keep a spare 

You see the lump under the Iceberg fleece and gear 

And when the beef cook, I'ma put the piece to your head 

And if you see a white truck that mean yo' sheets is dead 

Then I'm goin goin, back back 

to the block to dump the bucket and jump in the drop 

Niggaz know I'm good with the glock, they call me Chick Hearns 

Cause if the game on knot, I'm callin the shots 

I'll wear a shiny suit for a minute like I'm The LOX 

Then get gangster with a swap meet bag and a Jordan box 

And when I die, bury me with the glock, and a bucket of shells 

In case niggaz want drama in hell 

(Chorus)