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"War" lyrics by JOHNNY BLANCO
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[feat. Styles P]

Mic Check 1, 2, 1, 2... you know?
(Johnny Blanco)
Chea! Yeah, Yeah!
(The Ghost)
Whoo! WL, Double R, 2O, you know?
Casper Producer Co., Holla!
108 Corona!
Yo, Yo, Yo, Yo...

[Johnny Blanco:]
My waist lines an oven, who wanna get cooked?
Pretty and Handsome, but I move like a crook
The bars don't stop call me Mr. B-E-S-T
Ladies holla, fuck you whitey, and rub on they breast
And I don't need Kay Slay, to start no drama
I bring it to you, ya bitch, ya click, father, and momma
I'm hungry, ribs are showing, pass the fork
I'm eatin everything beef, chicken, pussy, and pork (sucka!)
The milis is warm, prepare for a storm
I'm putting numbers up, murdering shit, to getting my fuck on
To all my motherfuckin crackers holla back
Ladies suck on a dick and swallow back
I'm always in lobbies Coke, X, and Weed
Pharmaceutical man, call the block, Dwayne Reed
Go hard or go home, no bull shit permitted
Fuckin with the kid get a clip in ya fitted

You don't want no heaters
You don't really want no war
Better back up before we get ya
You don't really want know war
You don't really want know war
You don't really want know war
Better back up before we hit ya
With them thing that I tell ya, awww

[Styles P:]
Fuck you, I don't care
Ain't a nigga that I won't air
What Up?... Yeah
Fuck fightin' fair
Niggaz is getting jumped
Bullets is getting dumped
Niggaz is getting slumped
What Up?... It's the D-Block boy
The shotty tied to my leg, that's what I beat bop for
And I massacre ya head and ya neck
Peal off in a teal colored Acura, and that's it
Like a hit man for hire but I work for my self
If I want niggaz dead then I murk em' myself
I squeeze and pop, let 'em drink from myself
I'm a soldier even though I'm a boss
And if you heard five niggaz dead, then you know I'm the source
But I'm far from a magazine
Have niggaz at the funeral "like damn, they hit God with a magazine"
When you fuck with P, it's like gargling gasoline


[Johnny Blanco:]
2O and Double R, shit's trouble pa
Fuck who you are, we run tracks like NASCAR's
Y'all amateurs, with kalla bars, murder bars, who the fuck wanna change us?
Ya life a movie, you edit the hard shit
Dissolve the soft footage, you ain't hard, bitch
Ya flames is matches
My kerosene catches
And detaches, skin from bone and turns flesh to ashes
And I don't give a fuck about no cake
The shit flyin out my waist bout to spit in ya face
A louisville sluggin ya, right in ya jugular
To put a slug in ya, Johnny will have death huggin ya
Catch you in the studio writting a track
And leave ya motherfuckin head sleepin right on your lap
It's the cracker barrel boy with the holiday kid
Flying power out the holster, right by the rib


[Beat plays until fade]

[Thanks to Michael Gagliardi for correcting these lyrics]

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