On My Briefcase Lyrics - Brotha Lynch Hung

(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 

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(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 

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(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