1990 - Sick lyrics

Artist  : Spice 1 
Song : 1990 - Sick



 Send "1990 - Sick" Ringtone to your Cell 

 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)