corrija a letra Letra Where It's At (Another Tragedy) por 7eventhirty

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Letra

[Verse 1] New Jack City, not a new jack rapper/ Been snappin' in high speed, high definition/ It's the Spike Lee 35mm film grit/ Full clip/ Tarantino violent visions since it's that roughneck rappin'/ From the roughest West Jafrican/ 8 heads heavy in my duffle bag carryin'/ Rap beat bumin', got yo back seat jumpin'/ Like a n*gga in the trunk with his ass beat/ Strugglin' to get out/ While you struggle to figure this shit out/ We some tiger sharks swimmin' and we fishin' bitches out/ Never go unspoken when provoked, so if you prone to start it up we gotta finish this shit out/ Lord help ‘em/ Ya all welcome/ To come visit me in my city, but not welcome to get out/ We spill ya pasta, when we see impostor point ‘em out/ From the south/ Bringin' the heat up out the holster, ‘cross yo mouth
[Hook] Them Southside n*ggas runnin' game to ya spouse/ While them Northside n*ggas put then knuckles to yo mouth/ It was them Westside n*ggas snatched yo ass up out yo house/ The M. I. Crooked ‘bout the crunkest out the south/ So where you at/ I told you we'll be back/ Still triller than yo average and body baggin' tracks/ You tried to run up on ‘em, I told you we bustin' back/ So who dat/ Click clack/ It's them boys from the Jack/ Where it's at
[Verse 2] Many more where this hurt come from/ I'm just the first one, the worst one/ The whole herd come, ya whole earth done/ I been throwed/ Flip that fire-brimstone scariness/ Space Gangsta spit them live rounds out the chariot/ Hit you hard enough to leave you with nothing to bury, it's/ Ultraterrestrial evidence, I'm in my element/ Never ever push that button or pull that lever/ Unless you can't help yourself, cause you off of yo effin' medicine/ Rep that Sip Hop/ For my Jacktown n*ggas pourin' black Crown liquor, comin' to clap you down quicker/ Wit that Crooked Letta slum shit/ Might spark a wire fire starter Firewater Boy/ Flyer harder crunkness/ Vintage Noize n*ggas takin' everything/ Drop that/ Welcome to the Jack, son/ Where you think we got that/ f*ck the rap scene, I like the smell of gasoline/ And play with matches for the hell of it/ I'm done/ Burn the evidence

[Hook]

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