Composer : Patavious Isom/Fabio Aguilar/Keanu Dean Torres/Niles Groce/Dominic Spigner

Lyricist : Patavious Isom/Fabio Aguilar/Keanu Dean Torres/Niles Groce/Dominic Spigner

Ay, Duke Deuce

What the **** these *****s talkin' 'bout man?

Ay, they got us ****** up

Y-R-N

Money, paper, racks, cash, blue hunnids, guapa-nese

Foreign *******, suckin', ******', got 'em all, on they knees

All my *****s totin' pistols, even with felonies

And they shoot 'em like a camera, *****, say cheese

I know *****s bangin', Bloods, Crips, and some G's

And I got them shooters 'cross the country, overseas

These Percocet 10's got me geekin', feel like Hercules

It's murda, murda, murda, murda, murda, murda season (What!)

It's murda, murda, murda, murda, murda, murda season (Murda)

Them young *****s killin', hurtin' *****s for no reason (Brrah)

Free my brothers down the road, locked up but still eatin'

And they'll still never, ever fold

When they see the judge, ain't no pleadin'

It's just me and Duke Deuce (Duke Deuce)

We gon' beat a ***** ass 'til he turn black & blue (Boom boom)

See the opps, we gon' shoot (Brrah)

All these dead bodies, *****, recognize who was who (Who-who)

Way I ran got 'em spooked (What)

I came in with the gang, so I'ma pull up with the troops (Gang)

And I ain't ever gon' switch (Nah)

And my ***** wiped your nose, there's no one you can use (*****!)

Murda, murda, murda, murda, murda, murda (Murda)

These *****s gangsta, poppin' **** 'til we turn 'em (What?)

Into *******, yes we keep that fire, we gon' burn 'em (Brrah)

No, you can't buy them stripes, *****, gotta earn 'em

Money, paper, racks, cash, blue hunnids, guapa-nese

Foreign *******, suckin', ******', got 'em all, on they knees

All my *****s totin' pistols, even with felonies

And they shoot 'em like a camera, *****, say cheese

I know *****s bangin', Bloods, Crips, and some G's

And I got them shooters 'cross the country, overseas

These Percocet 10's got me geekin', feel like Hercules

It's murda, murda, murda, murda, murda, murda season (What!)

1-2-3-4 trappers up in my bando (Up in my bando)

5-6-7-8 sticks so the ***** better get low (***** better get low)

You think of Duke Deuces, Memphis (Memphis)

Makin' easy money and pimpin' (Pimpin')

Whole 'lotta robbin and dealin' (And dealin')

Man, everybody here killin' (Man, everybody killin')

I heat up and beat up the block

I G up to keep up, to re-up the stock (Re-up the stock)

Look what I am, what you're not

The people, they eat up, 'cause all my **** hot (My **** hot)

I'm out with no fours, my ice is cold

His ice cream rocky road (Rocky road)

Stick to the code, I never fold

I put that on the fours (Diddy)

You can see in a ***** eyes, some hunger (Don't bother me)

***** **** with me they gon' hide lil' homie

Yeah, my nuts hangin', ain't no gangbangin'

Why the **** you shootin' if you ain't aimin'?

Goin' one-fifty, end up half-capped

With the red seats like a dark angel

Money, paper, racks, cash, blue hunnids, guapa-nese

Foreign *******, suckin', ******', got 'em all, on they knees

All my *****s totin' pistols, even with felonies

And they shoot 'em like a camera, *****, say cheese

I know *****s bangin', Bloods, Crips, and some G's

And I got them shooters 'cross the country, overseas

These Percocet 10's got me geekin', feel like Hercules

It's murda, murda, murda, murda, murda, murda season