Spice 1 1990 - Sick Lyrics

1990 - Sick Lyrics

Chorus:



Kill ’em all (x4)

Cuz everybody dyin’ on this muthaf**kin’ album

Kill ’em all (x4)

Don’t kick up in the dirt when I’m puttin’ in work

Kill ’em all (x4)

Cuz everybody dyin’ on this muthaf**kin’ album



I murda like this (this)

I murda like that (that)

Pull an ak-47 up out my muthaf**kin’ gangsta hat

Professinal, columiban, necktiea, barbwire

Strangula, over killa, dead f**kin’ body hanga

Peepin’ out the window with an ak

Pullin’ up on these coppas

Helicoptas, squad cars, squat 10’s with choppas

They tellin’ me "nigga, get the f**k out before ya die

If you surrender, we’ll make sure that you quickly fry"

Should I kick open the door and go to war

Or should I stick my throat

Leave a pipe bomb and a f**k you note

Hallucinations of seein’ lynched bodies burnin’

And all the po-po had faces like mark furhman

Tear gas through my glass window pane

They wanna put me back up in the nut house again

But I’m not goin’ back and take my prozac

They can keep the straight jacket

And leave a straight mutha f**kin’ jack

A straight mutha f**kin’ jack

A straight mutha f**kin’ jack



Chorus



(get the hell off my dick, I’m 1990-sick)

(1990-sick) (x4)



Nigga’s to pull the lynch

Yayo case and stick

Marcia clark screamin’ out murda, jumpin’ on oj’s dick

Muthaf**kas still sufferin’ and healin’

Some high tech knowledga white boys blew up the f**kin’ fed buildin’

Crazy niggas still bangin’ and slangin’ crack

To the death, when the game put ’em up on they back

Muthaf**kas catchin’ names, from shootin’ high

And phony niggas still get sprayed up on the block

And I ain’t changed much, hell

I’m still smokin’ four or five muthaf**kin’ choppas before it’s twelve

Muthaf**kas think they know me, but they don’t know

I’m sellin’ first class tickets to the murda show

Don’t wanna rap about no nigga, let’s get it on

Bustin’ domes, buck shots through your rib bone

So all you niggas up in the magazines talkin’ shit

Get off my dick, I’m 1990-sick



Chorus



Muh-uh-mobbin’ up out the cu-uh-cut

With a ready to pow one

Nuh-uh-90 sick content of the album

If there’s a cure for this, don’t cure me

I’m comin’ with the fury

Playa hata’s gettin’ hung up like a jury

So peep the game from an old school g you know so well

The east bay gangsta, leaving caution tape and faces pale

I bails on a full moon like the 12 o clock

Neighborhood watch scared to look and see who on the block

Just fed a rallys, no po-po come around here

Cuz it’s a different time, different game, different year

1990 sick



Chorusx2

(get the hell off my dick, I’m 1990-sick)

(1990-sick) (x4)