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    Popa Wu / Lyrics

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    "Three Amigo's (If It's On)" Lyrics

    Popa Wu feat. Method Man and King Just

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    [Intro: Method Man]
    Say what? Ain't no pushin
    Say what? None of that shit goin on

    [Method Man]
    Made from the best shit on Earth
    I bring it to ya first, sick verse from the thurst
    In the darkness we lurk, load a cartridge and burst
    On the scene, like a new team
    Let 'em on our witness, the Method how I do things
    Perfected, my routine's are hectic and knockin
    General Electric, I'm shockin (bzzz)
    Now who top ten, to rot and land once forgotten
    Niggas poppin Crys' now, they stock market droppin
    They poison, I'm the antitoxin, that keep the party rockin
    And got me for us all, Johnny Cochran
    Get me off, grant them the ball, if I walk
    Put that order in the court, yeah
    Give me crack on and who the fuck really care, yeah
    World best prepare for Tical, to beware
    Or be gone outta here, you be warned
    Fuck all, get off that bullshit
    And kick the fuckin tux off, now it's on

    [Chorus: all]
    If it's on, then it's on
    We can get it on, gat for gat
    Track for track, song for song
    If it's on, then it's on
    We can get it on
    So what ya want nigga, ya want nigga? huh?

    [King Just]
    You got the beat from another planet
    Think I don't rock like granite
    Lyrical giantical, submerge the Titanic
    Panic with the frantic, antic watch them vanish
    In the zone, by my own, maricon, if you Spanish
    The outlandish, even though they can't stand us
    You better off gettin pick a size, tryin to ban us
    Either way you put it off, I'mma be heard
    That's my word, Stone Cold, Goldberg
    Like a nerve, don't fuck what ya heard
    That nigga just started hangin out on the curb
    What's the verdict, soundin like me, you can't word it
    I put it in overdrive, while you short circuit
    Worship the ground that I walk on
    I brought on, all the real niggas that you talked on
    Blahzay Blah, so on, it's a done deal, don't even go on
    Soundin nauseous, to choke on strong, to get my smoke on

    Talkin 'bout gats, ain't no bustin clacks, and ain't hustlin
    Too many cats that want to rap, and ain't sayin nuthin
    Foolin ya self, how let ya ass do it to ya self
    When it comes to cash, we the ones doin it, who else?
    Walkin our dogs, ya cats better beat yours
    Hot heat reach why'all, before you even get a chance to recharge
    You weak paw, me and my street niggas a' eat why'all
    We all, guess they ain't no question that we sure
    be -song, soon as you throw the fuckin beat on
    Dick riders ride, followers follow our lead on (you a fly guy)
    I'ma have to air ya guys out
    My shit is plat' before it even exit my mouth
    S.I.N.Y. nigga, who wan' try?
    Treatin a batty boy head, boom bye bye
    I.Q. sky high, I flaunt why'all to hardcore
    Conquer, why you frontin dunn? You don't want war

    [Chorus 2X]
    [Outro: Method Man]
    Three Amigos (we can get it on)
    *Method Man talkin Spanish*
    Punk! yeah yeah yeah yeah
    King Just
    Mr. Meth
    We gon polly to the death, yo
    S.I.N.Y., 10304 *echo*
    This song was submitted on October 18th, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group.
    Written by Clifford Smith.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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