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(feat. Paul Wall) [Intro: Paul Wall & {Juelz Santana}] Swisha House baby {Juelz Santana} Ya boy Paul Wall {I mean, I know it's a lot of hater on yo side} Yo I know they over there hatin on your side too {Oh yea, but'chu know we don't give a fuck about them niggas, man} Fuck 'em [Hook: Paul Wall & {Juelz Santana}] We don't give a fuck about you We tote big guns, front, we'll pop you {We be} {Creepin through ya hood} {Creepin through ya hood} {Mask low, mean mug, creepin through ya hood} [Verse 1: Juelz Santana] I'm down and I'm dirty with this I'm down to get dirty, ya bitch Aww man, aww damn The pound is just hurtin my hip Fuck with me I'll show you how them pounds and them birdies get flipped Letras de cancionesPlay around clown, you'll get found in the dirtiest ditch (Ey!) He like, yeah I don't give a fuck about who (bout who?) I'm like, we don't give a fuck about'chu ('Bout you) Hat low to the front Lean back, smokin a blunt (Ey!) See that button? Hit that, dope in the trunk Nope, coke in the trunk Nope, both in the trunk That gun is on my hip too, I been hopin you stunt (Yup!) You don't want my niggas creepin through ya hooood (Through ya hoood) You don't want my niggas creepin through ya woooods (Through ya wooods) You don't wanna see that pistol in ya face, homeboy You don't want my niggas leavin with'cha gooooods (Gooods) So don't play like that (Don't) Don't act like that (Don't) If you ain't like that (You know) [Hook] [Verse 2: Paul Wall] I got them windows tinted, five-percent Presidential limo tint I can see you, but'chu can't see me Two-twenty-three with extended clip Them fifty shots gon' set it off So fire drill, bitch drop and roll Gimme that watch, gimme that chain Empty them pockets and pay the toll I hang with killas out on parole Catch ya cut, run and hide Evacuate, murder-for-hire Kinda like old barb from the wire We'll chop ya up like garlic cloves And cook ya ass, like Elmer the chef Take ya last breath, put on ya vest But I'm aimin at'cha head boy, not'cha chest Now pack the iron, I'll start'cha dyin Hit them legs and crease ya up Then I hit the spot with a bad bitch That'll slob a knob and piece me up And when ya wake up, in the morning To the sounds of them choppers roaring I wear the heat, just like Alonso We'll leave ya whole family in mourning I'm in the hood like wig shops I'm on the grind, on the block Posted up like Yao Ming In a low post, I'm on the box We'll chop ya up like a Screw tape And have ya hollerin like the Opera But with my side-kick goin off I ain't talkin about no T-Mobile partna [Hook] From Letras Mania