Mike Bars – Hustlin’ Ill Lyrics (feat. Scooter Rogers)

Out in Portland where it’s pourin’ and it’s cold
And these f*cking Jordan’s that I sport are gettin’ old
So I’m tryna rustle up a couple a mil’
Just lookin’ for a customer to hustle some ill
Grindin’ daily, tryna scrape me up some dough
And I’m going crazy, some would say I’m on a roll
If you f*ck with me, I’ll put my nuts in your grill
Just looking for a customer, I’m hustlin’ ill

[Verse 1: Bourne Reddi]
Ok, I’m hustlin ill, boy I’m so f*ckin real, impeccable with some incredible skills
Every beat get beheaded, and severed, and killed
It’s me and my brother M-I-K-E, fresh jeans and my new N-I-K-E’s
A nigga beatin M-E on the M-I-C? Well see, that’s just so unlikely
Thought about quittin, but who am I kiddin? I’m way too far into this shit
I oughta be spittin, but f*ck I’m hittin your chick, and I swear I’m too deep in that bitch
I’m a beast and they don’t do it like I do it
They say I’m off the wall, cause my nuts are stapled to it
So should I slow the flow down, so I can swag it out?
Or pay a visit to your ho down to call you faggots out?
Put it on YouTube? You choose
On my mama, I keep a llama, that’s the Emperor’s New Groove
Everybody wanna talk about guns, but I wanna know who blam
Far from a fruit loop, but when it comes to guns – well, I gotta keep two cans

You buggin if you think these bustas bustin the steel
It’s Mike B and Bourne Reddi, bitch we hustlin’ ill


[Verse 2: Mike Bars]
I’m so hot, I could melt your swag
And when I opened the fridge, I think I fried up an egg and made the milk go bad
Put my steez in a pan and then baby I’ll cook it slow
Want a spice rack full of my swag? Well then baby I might have what you’re lookin fo’
Yeah, nothing but skills, gimme a beat and a couple of bills
And I’ll mix it, then chop it and package it up and deliver, that’s how I be hustlin’ ill
Baby, yeah I’m tryna get me 10 g’s
I make ends from my excellence, so I stack dough cuz I’m M.E
See, I capitalize from being capital ‘I’ with two lower case ‘L’s when I’m hustlin’
The cops see the roman numeral ‘III’, chuck the “dueces”, now I’m numero uno when I’m in customs
I’m that raw motherf*cker, off in the gutter, causin a ruckus, brawl with a glass full of Jim Beam
My balls in your mother, call her my lover, I’ll make her dive into this lap like a swim team
You got a bit of buzz, but I wouldn’t wanna be ya
A little aliteration cause I’m hotter than a heata’
‘FOP FOP FOP FOP!’ – that’s an onomatopoeia
But mama always taught me better than playing with guns
So do what my chainsaw be saying and run


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