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letra de nobody - ruste juxx

[hook: ruste juxx]
my n-gg- i ain’t got time to beef with these lames
homie i don’t play no games
i said, n-gg-s tryna hop on the back of my fame
so i don’t need to say no names
but i’mma put it like
who the f-ck rhyme better than ruste juxx?
n-body!
who the f-ck flow hotter than ruste juxx?
n-body!
who the f-ck go harder than ruste juxx?
n-body!
who the f-ck rhyme better?
n-body!

[verse 1: rustee juxx]
duck sick, anybody i don’t f-ck with
spit in your face if you talking ’bout “what up vic?”
the sky n-gg-, now put your hands high n-gg-
where them hundreds? all i see is two fives n-gg-
if heart was a bullet then you wouldn’t have a shot
the trigger i pull it, your head won’t have a top
bread i got a lot, juxx putting hits out
and i ain’t talking records b-tch, airing n-gg-s strips out
bloods and them crips out, bangin’ to my music
it’s like a drug you use, but don’t abuse it
never get me confused with a yellow back sucker
i’m a young crazy wild motherf-cker
hailing out of brooklyn live and direct
steady smoking but i ain’t get high yet
now, how many slugs can your fitted hat hold
call me forty below, cuz i spit it that cold

[verse 2: ruste juxx]
bank robber money bags, heavy on the way in
going back to cali then i’m shooting to the bay end
show’s cold bangin’, got the fans cold wilding
moshpit, aw sh-t, n-gg-‘s getting violent
juxx break ground with that hardcore sound
get the club shutdown, everybody letting off a round
it bees like that when you g’s like that
get a j-panese skeez on her knees like that
bootcamp, boot stamp all up in your back
cop k!ller, hollow points all up in your hat
bk, ny, east coast murderer
breakfast time smoking with the heat cold serving ya
nerve of ya, f-cking with a triple og
i double up pay and get a triple od
i get money f-ck b-tches, f-ck b-tches get money
other than a d-ck, she know she ain’t getting sh-t from me

[verse 3: ruste juxx]
ain’t n-body iller than the k!ller from crown heights
clowns try to copy but that sh-t don’t sound right
sh-t don’t pound like fifteens in the trunk
isaac hayes with some mitch green in the skunk
what b-tch? i’m a pimp, you feel the backhand
until you understand god is a black man
i’m from the crack lands, better yet dope slums
where you never see a preacher or the pope come
both done gone and left forever
my n-gg-‘s death motivates me so we rep together
and it don’t stop popping
i have your head like diddy when you hear me, cuz it won’t stop bopping
tick tock round the clock i’m clocking
keep your b-tch off my c-ck, she jocking
why you think that ho’ left her stockings?
look, she at my door right now, still knocking

- ruste juxx

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