Johnny Blanco - War Lyrics

Johnny Blanco Lyrics

War Lyrics
(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, f*ck 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 f*ck on
to all my motherf*ckin 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
f*ckin 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]
F*ck you, I don't care
Ain't a nigga that I won't air
What Up?...Yeah
F*ck by in fear
niggaz is getting jumped
bullets in getting dumped
niggaz is getting slumped
What Up?..Its the D-Block boy
the shotty tied to my leg, thats what I beat bop for
and I massacre ya head and ya neck
peal off in a teal colored Acura, and thats it
like a hit man if ya hired, but I work for my self
if I want niggaz dead then I murk them 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
you ain't far, for a magazine
have niggaz at the funeral like "like damn, they hit god with a magazine"
when you f*ck with P, its like gargling gasoline


[Johnny Blanco]
2O and Double R, shit's trouble pa
f*ck who you are, we run tracks like NASCAR's
y'all amateurs, with kalla bars, murder bars, who the f*ck 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 f*ck 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 motherf*ckin 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]

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