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letra de 1990 - sick - spice 1

chorus:

kill ’em all (x4)
’cause everybody dyin’ on this m-th-f-ckin’ alb-m
kill ’em all (x4)
don’t kick up in the dirt when i’m puttin’ in work
kill ’em all (x4)
’cause everybody dyin’ on this m-th-f-ckin’ alb-m

i murda like this (this)
i murda like that (that)
pull an ak-47 up out my m-th-f-ckin’ gangsta hat
professinal, columiban, necktiea, barbwire
strangula, over killa, dead f-ckin’ 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 “n-gg-, get the f-ck 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-ck you note
hallucinations of seein’ lynched bodies burnin’
and all the po-po had faces like mark furhman
tear gas through my gl-ss 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 m-th- f-ckin’ jack
a straight m-th- f-ckin’ jack
a straight m-th- f-ckin’ jack

chorus

(get the h-ll off my d-ck, i’m 1990-sick)
(1990-sick) (x4)

n-gg-‘s to pull the lynch
yayo case and stick
marcia clark screamin’ out murda, jumpin’ on oj’s d-ck
muthaf-ckas still sufferin’ and healin’
some high tech knowledga white boys blew up the f-ckin’ fed buildin’
crazy n-gg-s still bangin’ and slangin’ crack
to the death, when the game put ’em up on they back
muthaf-ckas catchin’ names, from shootin’ high
and phony n-gg-s still get sprayed up on the block
and i ain’t changed much, h-ll
i’m still smokin’ four or five m-th-f-ckin’ choppas before it’s twelve
muthaf-ckas think they know me, but they don’t know
i’m sellin’ first cl-ss tickets to the murda show
don’t wanna rap about no n-gg-, let’s get it on
bustin’ domes, buck shots through your rib bone
so all you n-gg-s up in the magazines talkin’ sh-t
get off my d-ck, 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 alb-m
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
’cause it’s a different time, different game, different year
1990 sick

chorusx2
(get the h-ll off my d-ck, i’m 1990-sick)
(1990-sick) (x4)

- spice 1

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