Brotha Lynch Hung Season of da Sicc Lyrics:
Hit the dank and took my glock off lock, and off
To the 21st blocc, I'm rollin in a drop top
Three for zero that black criminal mac mac nigga
That pap! pap! me hittin a couple of rounds And
while I test him, hey fuck a Smith & Wesson I
got my, nine at my chest and I got my dime bag Of
stress weed, a 40 oz. of OE and I'm creepin Up
on some niggas in a mob and a nigga claimin OG,
Pap! hit him in that dome and it was that
nigga's worst Put him on the ground wit a brain,
full o' dem nine slugs So wrap that nigga up,
put him in a hearse And I'm hittin 50, right
around that curb, tight, Rollin up in a 64, 4
doors sideways to the next light (YOU KNOW) An I
hit that corner of 24 street, some nigga mean
mugging Lynch, and I pop in a clip and I'm not
finna get got, I'ma shoot before I'm shot for
the fact I'm B-U-Double D-E-D I'm reaching up
in my glove box, for the welfare weed That's
fillin a nigga's siccness so I miss dead bodies
In an, oldsmobile, up on the curb and while I'm
skirtin Pass the view wit an empty 9 and some
bourbon (riiight) I just adjust to the fact that
niggas aint got no hope I'm fillin em up with
16s, and letting em know

Chorus

It's either that die, or that sickness, and
it's the nigga that nigga that One you come see,
with that 9 millimeter meter watch them 9
millimeter meat Wikkihdie come, Wikkihtah come,
Wikkihtah come, Wikkihtah E-drop, styling, If I
don't get you with me nina then me, you, scream,
And two pop nigga that mine in the deuce for the
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deuce Without them gun shells, firing, fidda them
don't know me when me high Off them doughshot
killa weed, me take-a me nine millimeter nine, And
me blast him, enemy for the die, cuz of dat
siccness dem creep And ten baumy and a them say

Load up that nine I'm finna finna go boom! Them
no dubbin up that nina cut them in half with some
of them Ripgut, quality, for the fundamental
cannibalism Got them black enemy runnin in and
when them, Sickness kick in a million, baby dying,
boom!

Hit em with my G like every day, nigga, From the
creek to the Garden Blocc, I was creepin from the
double dead red till all the drama stop, And 50
150 is all that shouldn't even be on a niggas
list Cuz since for the fuckin with I've been
crazy times 6 charging in '66 and um, Niggas
cant see my folk when I dump them .44 slugs all
down they throat It takes one time, all night, to
peel your tonsols From the phone post, you know,
All up in the cut with the real deuce deuce four
love I got But you know that nigga from the creek
so peep at what this trigger got Come follow me
sin, come quick cuz I'm bustin all up on your,
blocc Shakin up yo nuts like dice deuce four in
the don't strike twice Them gon all go say
"oh" about 44 times till so, Much later than
you go, better off dead, but nigga instead That I
let your mama know, she might wanna follow this
Fahlivum shit Cuz a nigga wont last much longer,
with wraps in the cut Chewin all on your nuts like
my nigga Jeffrey Dahlmer, Cant load that shit that
sickness gets me harder than a corpse Till I reach
for the greeds that nigga start jackin off until
it hurts Swallow my shit so thick this nigga run
loccs up on you almost daily For the digs then
I'm off dick grow soft with lynch I'm chewin
up babies We gonna stay sicc, for the crazy run em
up gospel shit kicks in It's the nigga named 6
with the locc to the brain style fix Eatin up your
dead skin

Chorus
Lyrics: Season of da Sicc, Brotha Lynch Hung [end]