Oh Yeah - Foxy Brown & Spragga Benz (sped up)

#nightcore #nightcoremusic
Lyrics:
Stick it up, mister
Hear what I'm saying, sir, yeah (Yeah, no, no, no, no, yeah)
Get your hands in the air, sir (Woo, yeah)
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo (Yagga-yo)
I'm the most critically acclaimed rap b*tch in the game
Coast-to-coast, stash the gat in holster girl
Dark-skinned Christian Dior poster girl
I'm a rockin' Timbs b*tch and a Gucci loafer girl
N*ggas say I'm too pretty to spit rhymes this gritty
F*ck y'all thought? Be dancin' around in suits like I'm *****?
Pretty, show n*ggas how we run this city
Respect my name, Boogie, n*gga, stay in ya lane
Like The Hurricane, rains on b*tches like Sugar Shane
And dare one of y'all rap b*tches to mention Fox name
What's beef? Beef is when b*tches think it's sweet
See, I'm frontin' in the streets and let my gat leak
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo (Yagga-yo, check, uh)
It's like I'm in my own f*ckin' world, I speak how I feel
Sometimes I feel like I'm just too f*ckin' real
I love to stack riches, no disrespect, y'all
I respect the rap game, but I don't f*ck with rap b*tches
I'm speakin' from my heart
It's not that I'm too good, I'm just hood
Been like this from the f*ckin' start
Since I bust my gun in ninety-six
Y'all ain't never see me flick up with them fake-a*s chicks
B*tches smile up in your face, turn around and pop sh*t
You a industry b*tch, I'm a in-the-streets b*tch
I might breeze through Prada, Chloe or Tiffs
But, other than that it's just me and my six
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo (Yagga-yo)
I dream filthy
My moms and pops mixed it with the Trini' rum and whiskey
Uh, proper set off
Six sped off, gats let off, I speak calm
Gangsta and pose off like Screechie Dan, bwoy
Who y'all know rock Prada like Fox?
Pop bottles in the back of the cellar with Donatella?
Cartier wrist wear, Pasha cage face
Y'all n*ggas stand in line just to get a sneak taste
Act like y'all don't know I keeps gat beneath waist
And like a hundred thou', each crib in each safe
When Fox come through she ah go dun di place
I'm like Marion Jones, what? Who the fluck wan' race?
Listen, never trippin', never catch Brown slippin'
F*ck, y'all only nice around mics like Pippen
Sh*t, to all my thugs that's Bloodin' or Crippin'
I'm still sh*ttin', still lowridin' and switch-hittin', n*gga
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo (Yagga-yo)
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo
Why yo, why yo-yo-yo
Why yo, why yagga-ya-yo (Yagga-yo)