Gutta Shit de Juvenile

You think you baa but bitch, I’m better
I’m you high, you need a ladder
Chopper, bullets in my matter,
and your dreams you gotta shatter
Mama told me ‘bout my manners,
found my weed and went bananas
Told me leave, I got no handles
Took my piece and my bandana

I am so Louisiana, country talk is in my grammar
Play me conference, play me cameras,
this white chocolate is the slammer
Niggas bark and get the hammers
The result is an example of a nigga with no ammo
He got crowded, he jam-o

I play chances with my barrels,
around these snakes without parole
Only deep I got his cattle,
if I got it I don’t tattle
Be like I was in Seattle,
bitch you know I like to travel
I don’t own a double barrel,
I was by own Kadaro

Hey oh, hey oh
As I’m rockin, I know you watchin
You know I’m ridin, that’s why you hidin
Hey oh, hey oh
As I’m rockin, I know you watchin
You know I’m ridin, that’s why you hidin