Lyrics

Yeah, y’all better know, I’m a bad bad bad
Lock ya windows, close ya doors, better have a plan.
My homie left a TEC and a 9 at my crib,
Turned himself in, now he doing a bid.
One-to-three stretch, he be home in ‘93,
I need this paper quick—yo, you ridin' with me?

“Hell yeah, my pockets lookin’ kinda tight,
And I’m stressed, so pass the vest, I need it tonight.”
“No need for that, just grab the strap,
Find the first pocket that’s fat, put the TEC to his back.”
"Word, I’ll drop him, ain't no playin’ 'round,
Treat it like boxing—stick and move, don’t make a sound."
Ain’t gotta explain, been on this since day one,
Same clip, same .45, one shot—he’s done.
That’s my word, try to front, it’s a closed casket,
His mother in the choir singin’—“Damn, what happened?”
Ayy, love that energy, I like how you move,
'Cause the ones that act soft are the first ones to lose.
They get bruised, pistol-whipped, left in the dirt,
Neck red from the chain-snatch, now it’s gettin’ worse.
Up the block, bitches gettin’ hit too,
Hand over them rings, them bracelets, them shoes.

I don’t care if you pregnant,
I need the baby rings and that "#1 Mom" pendant.
Slammin’ fools like Shaq, ain't no joke,
If I’m hungry, I’m takin’ what I need, no hope.
'Cause ain't nobody ever gave me shit,
So I leave ‘em in the gutter, tryna get rich.
Word to everything, I'm dangerous,
Crazier than a bag full of angel dust.
When the gat bust, dirt naps is where they land,
I’m all that, and a dime sack—now show me the bands.

Gimme the loot, gimme the loot (I’m a bad bad bad!)
Gimme the loot, gimme the loot (I’m a bad bad bad!)
Gimme the loot, gimme the loot (I’m a bad bad bad!)
What’s yours is mine, yeah, you know the plan.


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Big up, big up, it’s a stick-up, stick-up,
One wrong move and you get hit up, hit up.
Don’t let me load the clip up, it’s goin’ in ya back,
Headpiece gone, now your fam dressed in black.

Talkin’ to a robbery expert,
Step into the wake with ya blood on my shirt.
Don’t be a jerk, just hand it all over,
‘Cause once I let it spray, there ain’t no do-overs.

Damn, where the cash at? Where the stash at?
Hand it over quick, before it gets real bad.
.357 in the pocket, no bluff,
One in the chamber, 32 ain’t enough.

Better strip, better move, don’t resist,
Or find out how this blue steel kiss.
From the Beretta, puttin’ holes in ya sweater,
Takin’ what’s mine, and I do it way better.

Rolexes, Swatches, I’m diggin’ in pockets,
Anybody front, they get hit, no stoppin’.
Class rings, chain links, yeah, I want it all,
If she fight back, then she bound to fall.

So go get ya man, he can get hit too,
Tell him it got took, ain’t nothin’ he can do.
Better be polite or it’s gon’ get set,
And once it’s set, he won’t ever forget.