Text: T-Pop. Screwed Up Click Representa: Wise Guy. On My Grind.

(feat. Z-Ro, Lil' Flex, Buddah Man)

[Hook:]
I've got to stack my paper daily, (on my grind)
Keeping ways this crooked game can pay me, (on my mind)
On the block all day bout to drive me crazy, (but I got to shine)
All day I gotta get my hustle on, because I wanna ball not get my struggle on

[Z-Ro:]
Gotta get up and get it, cause I gotta have some'ing
If I'm broke I'ma play Spondalay, cause I'ma grab some'ing
I'm a soldier, and I ain't gon stop swinging till I fold ya
I gotta pay ready bills, plus I need some doja
From doing shows, to kicking in do's for feddy
Prefer a glock, cause it ain't heavy
I'm in the Dodge not the Cheve, cause I'm ready to ride tonight
Roll with tensions, I don't need nobody eyes tonight
Because a snitch, is somebody that you dig a ditch for
When you do it alone, is when you get rich brah
Even when I'm on the block, I got my spot tied down
Any short stopping, they know I'm ready to ride down
Cause I need my money, ain't no working for free
If it ain't 25 hundred, don't even bull with me
Cause I ain't coming, unless I can get what I'm worth
Cause I be feeling like, I'm the rawest MC on this earth

[Hook]

[T-Pop:]
I like to see the sunshine, and just roll on 84's
Let these boppers know the deal, they know that Southside gon hold
Gon hold, fa sho pockets gon fold
Screwed Up Click my family, and we done kicked in the do'
Z-Ro, King of the Ghetto stacking his feddy
Copping these dollar signs, so you busters ain't ready
We cocked up in a Cheve, plus we pushing the clock
Benz on Lorenzos, sitting low in the drop
I won't stop, because I'm too far gone
Corleone I'm a rider, till you come back home
Taking fo's to the dome, Screwzoo sit on your throne
We still jamming your songs, thanking the Lord you was born
Because without you, it wouldn't be no rapping
The only thing I could see, is my pistols a click-clacking
Click-clacking bad actor, nine packer
Reflecting this beam, for you petty ass jackers

[Hook]

[Lil' Flex:]
We pop Cristal, in the memory of
And write songs, for the people we remember we love
Remember we thugs, this is for the Crips and the Bloods
Nobody cries when we die, only swishas and jugs
Ounces of bud, put up your mug it's going down
Pop the trunk and show surround, the Dirty 3rd is where I'm found
One hundred percent realer, of the 7-90 taxing niggaz
By mouth phones, I be faxing niggaz
From the streets, you better ask them niggaz
I got more toys in the trunk, than you action figures
They don't come around, because we clap too much
And I don't bar with lil' boys, cause they act too much
If you think about getting clips, and jacking us
Then you better think again, cause the gats'll bust
Like Biggie Smalls say, I'm notorious
The way that we ball is so glorious, glorious

[Hook]

[Buddah Man:]
For change I spit game, you better believe
I'm letting my K sneeze, till you cease to breathe
Got a hunger for cheese, I'm all about my scratch
On fire like a match, it's best you back-back
When this hammer track back, don't mug this nigga wrong
Hollow tip bullets, put plugs in niggaz domes
I ain't stopping till you gone, I ain't taking a loss
I'm a game spitter, certified Mafia boss
Go-getters with one hitters, that sting like a wasp
Necks be iced out, no matter the cost
A verbal Holocaust, I spit's the real
For niggaz that don't know, this the deal
Stepped out entered the do', with thug appeal
Boys saying, this nigga must be a thug for real
Show nothing but skills, and I'm ready to throw down
It go down, I'm grooving now kicking the do' down
No time to slow down, I'm tearing this hoe down
But peel your niggaz off, and I'm taking some mo' down
This a Southside showdown, recognize the name
Lyrics like hot flame, game recognize game stack paper

[Hook]