[Chorus x4: DJ Paul, Project Pat, Juicy J.]
Pure Anna for you hoes, Pure Anna for you hoes,
With the - with the hollow-point shells, man,
Man, nobody knows.
It seems like I might not even make it out here on these bricks,
Might have to murder a chick, might have to kill a bitch.
Maybe they gon' knock me up for dope ass lyrics that I spit,
Like they did my nigga C-Bo, stressing gangsta shit.
Look into the pit of my eyes, feel my anger,
Seventeen rounds out the clip, through the chamber.
I heard you cowards, mane, would love to see me and my niggas,
Die a violent death from a gun, your hand on the trigger.
Nigga you can do whatever the fuck you think you need,
Snort you up some lines to build your heart, I'm gon' hit this weed.
I procede, hoe, I'll die for mine, I'm ready to catch a caper,
Most my niggas either on parole or some kinda paper,
Fakers out here, mane, they hate.. Real niggas with a passion,
Project ain't yo' friend, motherfucker, label me assassin.
Strictly blastin', casting', bitch; made niggas straight to hell.
Fuck them laws, 'cause if I get caught.. I ain't scared of jail.
Please don't test these murderers,
Push our slugs to your mug, ate your skin up with no love.
It is I, the almighty Scan Man, from the Killa Klan,
Insane in the brain, still throwin' bodies off the train.
In the sky, mystic, black; time for a rib clench,
On my victim because he tested, madness,
And my tech 9 got me aimin' at your spine,
My 357 blast and at the written right on time,
They never find.. Your body parts, buried in my backyard,
Daddy's hanging from a tree, granny has no fucking spleen.
Mommy's in the garden, pregnant, fixin' up the soil..
So I took my knife and ripped her fetus out so it was for..
No more, her bustas' rip a rim around the chest,
Now it's me, with the Anna that put you hoes to rest.
But they call me crazy 'cause I said I ripped her fetus out her belly..
It's not that I'm a psychotic, I'm just takin' cares of my business.
Hopped off in my T., yo, Monte Carlo, whoa, roll things,
These bustas must back-up, and bitches must maintain.
The Mack, I gotta express myself,
And break it on down for these folks that don't hear me, though,
Counterfeit smile, Mack-hater you ain't wild,
Triple Six and Killa Klan got them thangs to your temple.
Why these smoked up bitches all upset, is it 'cause it went state to state?
Getting calls from a broad that I fucked in the past,
Still mad 'cause your man got this song on tape.
Murder, murder, weeds and rum, the outcome left a body numb,
Putting it down for all the Macks, with a killer in-track with fire-arms.
I see your jealous envy from them diamonds glistenin' around my neck,
From trick to treat, we done played your bitch, smokin' green, stackin Gs,
From morning-checks; purse first, ass last, you wanna know who's under the mask,
Another dirty thug from the south, and I'm breaking backs,
I'm chiefin' like an Indian, and the dust, that's the type of stage I'm in,
Still blastin' with this, y'all, come say hello to my little friend.
From the streets of Memphis to the world, this clique done hit the top,
The whop-bop straight from the Glock 'til your blood clots,
MC Mack and I got.