Wrong by Kuniva Lyrics
[Intro: Kuniva]
Uh, yeah
D12
Uh, yo, yo
[Verse 1: Kuniva, Kon Artis]
Yo I think it's time to kill all the drama, mane
It's three o'clock yo it's time to fuck your momma, mane
See I don't give a fuck, I deal with that karma, mane
I plant bullets in you niggas like a farmer, mane
I'm never slackin' up, steering in the right lane
Shootin' niggas house up or sippin' on some night train
High as a kite mane, now you on some trouble
Buck-50 across your face, if you winning I'ma cut you
And still bustin' nigga bubble, leave you in a bloody puddle
At your funeral, they cuddle
Bang like three gats, show me where the peace at?
Shoot him in his kneecap, take his little weed sack
Three niggas with three MACs, pull your car seat back
Hit 'em with the heat black, leave 'em in the street black
With some real streets cats while you're out touring, mane
We still shoot up niggas while they performing, mane
I'm still ripping while you checking off some chicken
I'ma shoot right in your kitchen, now your lower neck is missing
And don't know the meaning of the word "Pull your skirt up"
You don't know about the Dozen, motherfucker you will get murdered
You got it right nigga, we the ones you fight with
Got them nines spitting at you, we will end your life quick
That house nigga that, house nigga this
Want some black in you bitch then suck a house nigga dick
It ain't about a magazine, it ain't about race
It's about you spitting ghostwritten shit out of your face
So die another day, because you know it's entertainment
I stuck you out of shape pale face into the pavement
The cotton pickers goin' crazy on this lady
With the braids while the babies in the shady, niggas praise me
You're out on the wolf tickets, niggas you wack as fuck
(Yo, give me a shank let me take, champagnes up)
[Verse 2: Kon Artis]
Okay, you can't even write rapture, you're damned at fifty years old
Your daddy's on his death bed, you're never gonna go gold
It's best if you'd just shut it up, fresh whoops when it's lettered up
You don't want it with me, take a L like a 7-Up
Fuck your momma I give back shots to your woman
Guess you could say that she got cock in her stomach
If the bitch say she pregnant, no I'm not gonna want it
But you suckers jump, fuck it, I'll make you pay for it mane
Now you pissed, in the club all louder
Jamie Foxx your punk ass, hop back through the crowd
Lick a shot for my man who just got locked down
(Ayo, yo, yo, yo, yo fuck that, keep goin')
'Cause when the bodies start droppin', niggas mommas get to crying
Traffic move a little slow, a funeral be passing by 'em
This shit could've been prevented, if you hadn't started whinin'
'Bout a hundred bein' infractioned and most niggas that be rhymin'
Uh, yeah
D12
Uh, yo, yo
[Verse 1: Kuniva, Kon Artis]
Yo I think it's time to kill all the drama, mane
It's three o'clock yo it's time to fuck your momma, mane
See I don't give a fuck, I deal with that karma, mane
I plant bullets in you niggas like a farmer, mane
I'm never slackin' up, steering in the right lane
Shootin' niggas house up or sippin' on some night train
High as a kite mane, now you on some trouble
Buck-50 across your face, if you winning I'ma cut you
And still bustin' nigga bubble, leave you in a bloody puddle
At your funeral, they cuddle
Bang like three gats, show me where the peace at?
Shoot him in his kneecap, take his little weed sack
Three niggas with three MACs, pull your car seat back
Hit 'em with the heat black, leave 'em in the street black
With some real streets cats while you're out touring, mane
We still shoot up niggas while they performing, mane
I'm still ripping while you checking off some chicken
I'ma shoot right in your kitchen, now your lower neck is missing
And don't know the meaning of the word "Pull your skirt up"
You don't know about the Dozen, motherfucker you will get murdered
You got it right nigga, we the ones you fight with
Got them nines spitting at you, we will end your life quick
That house nigga that, house nigga this
Want some black in you bitch then suck a house nigga dick
It ain't about a magazine, it ain't about race
It's about you spitting ghostwritten shit out of your face
So die another day, because you know it's entertainment
I stuck you out of shape pale face into the pavement
The cotton pickers goin' crazy on this lady
With the braids while the babies in the shady, niggas praise me
You're out on the wolf tickets, niggas you wack as fuck
(Yo, give me a shank let me take, champagnes up)
[Verse 2: Kon Artis]
Okay, you can't even write rapture, you're damned at fifty years old
Your daddy's on his death bed, you're never gonna go gold
It's best if you'd just shut it up, fresh whoops when it's lettered up
You don't want it with me, take a L like a 7-Up
Fuck your momma I give back shots to your woman
Guess you could say that she got cock in her stomach
If the bitch say she pregnant, no I'm not gonna want it
But you suckers jump, fuck it, I'll make you pay for it mane
Now you pissed, in the club all louder
Jamie Foxx your punk ass, hop back through the crowd
Lick a shot for my man who just got locked down
(Ayo, yo, yo, yo, yo fuck that, keep goin')
'Cause when the bodies start droppin', niggas mommas get to crying
Traffic move a little slow, a funeral be passing by 'em
This shit could've been prevented, if you hadn't started whinin'
'Bout a hundred bein' infractioned and most niggas that be rhymin'