Brotha Lynch Hung On my Briefcase Lyrics:
(Lynch): Now on my briefcase was some crumbled
weed A pack of Saravegas and a 24 ounce O.E. Might
as well skeez these couple of hoes In my 69 Malibu
sittin' on trues and vogues For days you might
have seen me in my cinnamon cut chrome shoes With
some you can't see me tint on the windows Indo
syndrome Smokin' it up, not givin' a muthafuckin'
fizuck Sold the cut, my ex-hoe said that nigga's
sqautin' what? Got at the homie Carl, and got some
of that bomb Had me so fuckin' high I got off like
Vietnam Dead bodies and bitches clits simmerin' in
the crock pot And the shit don't stop until my
muthafuckin' chronic or high drop It's just that
insane type of thang, let the Mac rain guts in the
drain Siccmade niggas they make the world go round
And if you fuck with Siccmade Music you can get
your ass gunned down

(Phonk Beta): I had a homie who stayed up in
Alaska, used to transfer flights over Nebraska And
flew me back about a ounce of that Alaska Indica
weed And out of the whole zip possessed one seed
Had it wrapped real tight all up in cellophane
Can't have the K-9 dogs smell it, man If only you
saw what I was seein', the buds was almost pure
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white, not green Had to be one of those one hitter
quitter dome splitters That's the type a tweed
that makes you wanna fuck your baby-sitter I roll
a fattie, when I roll this fattie Niggas'll be all
noid wonderin' why they lookin at me Bitches have
the nerve to say my shit ain't bomb But it'll have
your lungs burnin', like your puffin' on napalm

(Zagg): I wipe that sweat up off my forehead, I'm
off the cusche Lay back and take a comfortable
hit, with a Q-tip, it's splittin' my lips And my
dome stays split off toothpicks I hit a lick with
a quickness, dumpin' dead bodies in ditches
Appreciate the fact, come correct, cuz I could be
vicious Suspicion, comin' up on recognition I'm
creepin' up from behind With a 12 gauge,
non-fiction, I'm all prepared to go for mine So
step in line, a couple of hits, dome split, I be
lit on a for real base With a machete I'll slice
your neck just like them Jason cases Murder
traces, but I ain't pinned cuz there's no evidence
Slight scent of that purple cusche plant, and I
can almost sense the essence What's the lesson?
Get tested, don't come if you can't come correct
It's that West Coast shit for life I don't know
what you expected I'm reckless, nevertheless I'm a
pimp in a bulletproof vest Puttin' it down, pound
for pound, you need to take a step down 50 caliber
rounds, I'm runnin' through your whole town
Buckin' em down like Doom set on deathmatch with
the BFG-9000 cartoon
Lyrics: On my Briefcase, Brotha Lynch Hung [end]