Shady Times lyrics

[Intro: Web]
What's happenin'?
Some of that old gangsta, leave a n*gga in a ditch type sh*t, you know?
Yeah
We players but we gangstas, too, n*gga
Mac Dre and Young Web finna put it down in a real way
Check it out, check it out, check it out

[Verse 1: Web]
Have a seat, grab a blunt, relax your back
I'ma about to kick some facts to make you feel that you've been jacked
I attack, at any cost, without no means
Packin' AP-9s, AKs with infrared beams
It seems some kids up in this game need to be taught a lesson
n*gga, one suggestion: let's call together a funk session
'Cause when I bust, I bring major pain
Keith Sweat would wanna cross out in my type of rain
n*gga, my lyrics is something make the others fear the reputation
I'm bustin' with a sensation that'll leave you in devastation
Fry like bacon
This money I'm takin' to fill my pockets
Fools be tryna stop but I be blowin' up like rockets
Your arm sockets, legs and waist stay left
The only thing this n*gga about to meet now is his death
The point I'm makin' potna is don't test me 'cause I'm packin' a .380
Motherf*cker when times are shady
[Interlude: Mac Dre]
Yeah, Young Web, n*ggas ain't knowin'
It can get real funky around here, you know?
So goddamn drastic after I hit a n*gga with the plastic, right?
n*gga, I hung that fool off the Carquinez while that gun fell off me and I'm sideways
Yeah, straight gangsta sh*t, n*gga, n*gga, n*gga

[Verse 2: Mac Dre]
I'm a scrilla getta, that'll kill a n*gga about grits
And I'm quick to trip and slip on my mitts
And put hands on a snake if I peep some scandal
Beat n*ggas up just like Frankie Randall
If I can't handle, that ass from the shoulders
That's when I dash and get the pistola
You didn't know a player had G sh*t in him?
Well, send a n*gga at me, I'll put three clips in him
So goddamn fast and won't leave one clue
And be cryin' at the funeral just like you
I thought you knew, fool, when it comes to this
Gangsta type sh*t, n*ggas run from this
I got stripes, stars, bars and medals
For puttin' in work doin' dirt in the ghetto
I'm a O.G. and a H-O-G
A motherf*ckin' hog and they don't wanna see
My vicious tactics 'cause sh*t gets drastic
Leave 'em bleedin' and blasted, ready for a casket
I'm real with it, and love to ill with it
You trippin' off Mac Dre? Then potna let's deal with it
The 707 North Bay soldier
I thought you knew? I know somebody told ya
[Interlude: Web]
Yeah, I know somebody told yo' punk ass
Never no Cutt will lie when the drama flies
Just gon' be homicides 'cause we makin' some mamas cry, you know?
So go get your black dress, b*tch, yeah
Because we flowamatic when countin' C-notes, sucka
Gettin' scrilla

[Verse 3: Web]
These motherf*ckers best'a recognize that I be packin' the ammo
Like Commando, then I'll light yo' ass like a candle
But I'm Rambo, up on a mission up in the jungle
To knock down a couple of stables and get 'em for they bundle
I made 'em crumble, from the parts that I pack
Bustin' with M-16, Calicoes and Macs
Automatic gats, that's what I use to kill all gang
They send in Web 'cause he's trained, when I'm let loose, I'm insane
There's blood stains, 'cause I was blowin' up sh*t from the start
I takes my steps, was smellin' death and lookin' at body parts
Does this sparks, but I'm the only n*gga that lasts
Puttin' body parts up in caskets and burn 'em all down to ash
Stupid ass bast*rds
What you tried to do was unforgettable
Your gun's quiz was death and it wasn't even that damn difficult
n*gga, tryna send your damn lady
Web and Dre be packin' .380s when times are shady
[Interlude: Web]
Yeah, when times are shady it goes down
I got my pen foul, the crowd's runnin' wild 'cause the guns *pow*
It's the AP with the 50-round clip and these fools can't get with me
Young Web causin' fatalities, n*gga, when it gets drippy
sh*tty committee, sucker

[Verse 4: Mac Dre]
My style is foul, I break laws, never legal
Glued to the track strapped with my Desert Eagle
Servin' them suckers, a motherf*cker start drama
I might let him live but bust a cap in his mama
Yeah I'm a player, player, but players play with b*tches
When it come to them trick snitches my trigger finger itches
Ready to peel a cap off a punk ass, drunk ass
n*gga startin' static, take his life and his punk ass
Dre is a killer, drug dealer, ex-convict
Suckers say I'm sick, some drop dimes quick
'Cause I'm an ill n*gga and ill n*ggas kill n*ggas
Who alert the 5-O and the money gettin' real, n*gga
Takin' out cousins, even steppin' to nieces
Send 'em to the grave now they restin' in pieces
I'm 5150, a stone cold J-cat
Jackin' motherf*ckers so my pockets they stay fat
Rappin' ain't sh*t but a slow grind, so I'm
Hittin' licks quick gettin' rich in no time
Ask about my work and they say "He gets green"
Runnin' up in sh*t with his AR-15
The Mac named Dre is a big fool, sick fool
And if you ain't down then suck my di*k, fool
I don't give a f*ck about a n*gga or b*tch too
I run with a big crew, and yeah, they sick too

[Interlude: Web]
Ha ha ha ha, yeah
Y'all put that down
Let them suckers know how it go in that big Bay Area
Pimps, players, rhyme-sayers, gangstas and big bankstas
Suckers, stay back, 'cause you know we stay strapped
Yeah, this is Young Web comin' at that ass for the 9-motherf*ckin'-6
This is for all the motherf*ckin' Crestsiders, the real riders
To my motherf*ckin' cuddie Young Nico

[Outro: D-Con]
That's right, that Rompalation, this D-Con, fool
And that sh*t is hoodrat party for your mind, n*gga
Yeah, can't f*ck with this, or get enough of this
1996 punk b*tch
Mac motherf*ckin' Dre is back through here, tearin' sh*t up
Lettin' them suckers have it
Ha ha ha, f*ckin' aliens