Lyrics:

(Lynch): Now on my briefcase was some crumbled weed A pack of Saravegas and a 24 ounce O.E. Might as well skeez these couple of hoes In my ' 69 Malibu sittin' on trues and vo's For days you might have seen me in my cinnamon cut chrome shoes With some you can't see me tint on the windows Indo syndrome Smokin' it up, not givin' a muthafuckin' fizuck Sold the cut, my ex-hoe said that nigga's sqautin' what? Got at the homie Carl, and got some of that bomb Had me so fuckin' high I got off like Vietnam Dead bodies and bitches clits simmerin' in the crock pot And the shit don't stop until my muthafuckin' chronic or high drop It's just that insane type of thang, let the Mac rain guts in the drain Siccmade niggas they make the world go round And if you fuck with Siccmade Music you can get your ass gunned down (Phonk Beta): I had a homie who stayed up in Alaska, used to transfer flights over Nebraska And flew me back about a ounce of that Alaska Indica weed And out of the whole zip possessed one seed Had it wrapped real tight all up in cellophane Can't have the K-9 dogs smell it, man If only you saw what I was seein', the buds was almost pure white, not green Had to be one of those one hitter quitter dome splitters That's the type a tweed that makes you wanna fuck your baby-sitter I roll a fattie, when I roll this fattie Niggas'll be all noid wonderin' why they lookin at me Bitches have the nerve to say my shit ain't bomb But it'll have your lungs burnin', like your puffin' on napalm (Zagg): I wipe that sweat up off my forehead, I'm off the kush Lay back and take a comfortable hit, with a Q-tip, it's splittin' my lips And my dome stays split