On My Briefcase

Brotha Lynch Hung


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 vo's

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 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


I wipe that sweat up off my forehead, I'm off the kush

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 ga