Dump, Bust, Blast lyrics

[Intro]
Uh (Uh)
Come on, aye, aye Roskeezy?
Aye, my, my, turn it up (burps)
Hey Roskeezy? Hey that sh*t right there, aye
(Talk to me weeplations), that sh*t
That's ebbin? Aye that sh*t smebbin, that sh*t ebbin?
That sh*t smebbin, ooh (ooh)

[Verse 1]
4:15 showcasing to the max
Got my truck-a-ma-jig free racing causing anxiety attacks
Pitch black normal tint BOOM BAP!
f*cked around and overheated my Zeus amp
500, oh the hoes, f*ck a hoe
These are the things that, uh, you need to know
Bust him open, spin open the duct tape and the foil
Eat the rest, and get a pot and let 'em boil
Bullet proof vest, never confess, keep a bucket full of acid
1-800-888 zippers-on-tastic
Clientele, raise 'em high raise 'em low
Out on bail, everybody hit the floor

[Chorus]
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust (ooh!)
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust
Dump, Bust, (BEOTCH!) Blast
[Verse 2]
Slurp slip, deep throat, sh*t I'm outta sight
I like to get my di*k sucked in - broad daylight
Acting bad on the soil acting tough
Break your ass down like a 12-gauge and call yo' bluff
Ignore a fool, that's what they holler
Snatch his bootsee ass up by the collar
Law enforcement agents got me and my dudes up under investigation
We hot like jalapenos
Man, how come n*ggas can't put their money together like Filipinos?
Life support, can you bring him back?
He was one of them enemies that tried to participate in Swiss cheesin' my clean-ass Cadillac
My Cadillac, my Pontiac I mean
My under-bucket hoopty parked on Magazine

[Chorus]
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust (ooh!)
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust
Dump, Bust, (BEOTCH!) Blast
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust (ooh!)
Dump, Bust, Blast, Dump, Bust
Dump, Bust, (BEOTCH!) Blast

[Verse 3]
Check it out (check it out)
Third verse, let's begin let's be gone
I done served more water than, uh, Evian
Posted up like a thumbtack, on the boulevard serving dead
Yola, ice cream, Ben and Jerry (Jer)
Been doing somethings, cigars and pinky rings
I'm a fixture up in this sh*t, like E-40 and the Click
Paper all up under my box spring mattress, choppers on top of the fridge
Automatics in the kitchen cabinets, man I kill a motherf*cker over mathematics
Haters gon' hate, but they don't count, n*gga hustle
The dope game runs on two things (what's that?) money and muscle
Do some Gotti, Fourth of July your party
Laid his "supposed-to-be so-called-hardest-n*gga-in-your-town" ass down in front of everybody
[Chorus: (with three overlapping tracks of random talking)]