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    Masters Of Illusion / Lyrics

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    "East West Hustlers" Lyrics

    Masters Of Illusion

    Yo whassup kid?
    Yo every motherfuckin year I spend $70,000
    for a fuckin picnic, 4th of July
    You motherfuckers come and eat up my shit, now that's right
    Bitches too, bring your own fuckin brown paper bag
    Get out my fuckin yard
    Nah na not this year, I'm not fuckin with motherfuckers
    I'm stickin niggaz up, puttin 'em on the grill
    Charcoalin motherfuckers
    That's right

    [Kool Keith]

    I call up Motion, crank the pipes in the green Cutlass
    Stankhead roll, super fly spinner on gold vogues
    From here to Texas playin Master P, in the Lexus
    Speakers and rearview, comin to, bangin through you
    Strippers that wiggle wind up, out them short pants
    And bitches can dance here's yo' yip baby suck my dick
    That's on the Ampex reels, countin dollar bills
    Don't smoke no bit that weed man smell like shit

    [Motion Man]
    I'm built for action, my hairy chest with gold chains
    just smokes a fraction, and saves some for the brain
    My ostrich headband, playin ball
    Move upon the floor like I'm Allen, show my crossover now
    Cadillac the fifth wheel, six hoes in the back
    Keith packin the steel
    Nigga how the fuck you comin out with this scalliwag?
    She ain't ridin in my love

    With that kitchen and that kinky purr, or belly rub
    And take that other fat hoe with the blubber, I roll like Daytons
    Very expensive for you ones on budgets, my name is Clifton
    Capital see-lift off, giraffe jacket
    Puma jeans, trout shoe, elk hat
    Yo rub my back 'til my penis bulge out of my slacks
    Be like a crook and stab you right up in your tuna and hug it
    I got the bait, five Cadillacs deep in yo' state
    Be like them vogue tires, gold trim, I fucked you you're fired

    [Chorus: repeat 4X]
    [K] East West hustlers
    [M] We showin out
    [K] Bronx to the Bay-ay-ay
    [M] We showin out

    [Motion Man]
    You know how it is, I hear a noise and take my shit straight to the shop

    Nigga FIX MY SHIT and run it by eight o'clock
    Who she roll with, Clyde that down South Southern-ass drawer nigga
    Yo tell him you with Clifton, and Lady Jones clockin these figures
    You see we all connected
    My leopard spot drawers got infected
    I had a velvet condom, eagle socks, tyrannosaurus rex, turtlenecks
    Niggaz sweatin in a drop-top Vette, but it ain't mine

    [Kool Keith]
    44 mag glove compartment and the plastic bag
    I come real with shit, Bobby who you fuckin with?
    You down South with the Klabman, close your fuckin mouth
    I'm Lenny Jones, chewin steaks, y'all eatin chicken bones
    4th of July them city boys come and start trouble
    Uncle Harold lightin ass with the double barrels
    Winchester sawed-off, blast a motherfucker's neck off
    We blow yo' leg off, the shirts and yo' whole head off
    We called the ambulance, paramedics in yo' progress
    My cousin Ricky, with jheri curls through yo' vest
    Double ocks catch crews out there in many spots
    Big boy Uncle Pete, down South hustler
    Go help Aunt Reese, you motherfuckers bring the mustard
    Chicken salad, don't fuck with grandma layin on the palette
    y'all take aim and rest, with liquor on yo' fuckin breath


    [K] I put the garbage out, get your ass out the bedroom
    [M] I tamed the monkey, squeezed the vocals up out the sparrow
    [K] Usin your tactics, your little speakers sound plastic
    Crossover samples, don't try to come, like you Rambo
    Get in yo' ass again, you get the real blast again
    [M] I leaned up on the curb and slid some beer for my folks
    Took some tokes, Clifton, liftin
    Suck my anal, the baldheaded kid unclog yo' shit like Drain-o
    [K] East West hustlers
    [M] We showin out

    This song was submitted on November 12th, 2013 and last modified on October 18th, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © The Bicycle Music Company.
    Written by Keith Thornton, Kurt Matlin, Paul Laster.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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