Chorus(Lynch and D-Dubb)4x I got an AP 10 and a throwaway Tech 9 So you know you can't fuck with mine If I was standing in the dark letting my nine spark Maybe in the morning, motherfuckers might feel me yet It's that nine tech nigga that got them motherfuckers tore up As I smash of in a seven deuce cut, you holding your gut What the fuck you smoking on? All dome as the chronics got me gone On 'til the slugs come out At night I do my murder red rum so tight I'ts the third strike nigga So now I'm aiming up at your dome 'Bout to make your brain split and hit the Fleetwood Brome I'm like Richard Chase, mixed with Al Capone If you want some ripgut shit nigga So bone to the crib, or get your wig split fool, with the tech chrome And say the alphabet backwards fast or find you a brand new dome A criminal minded nigga that gots tefs in his nine So head to the East side, 'cause it's red rum time, nigga Nigga, it's that-Sac of Indo-Killafornia State of mind Where niggas put their gangster gear on, and bend corners With their neighborhood flags and their black Carthart beenie As I swoop through the hood and get up to no good Test my tech, 'cause nigga, it loves to take out necks And empty backs out, so I max out More smoke than chronic smoking Loced out sherm, classic perm In my ashtray, there's always a roach Hit the left lane in case one times approach 17 in the clip of my, auto mag I gotta watch my back, 'cause these niggas wanna throw me up in a leather sack, and throw me over their back Why you think I got extended clips 'Cause I'm so high, most of the time More from Brotha Lynch Hung