Перевод песни Junior M.A.F.I.A. – Oh My Lord

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Why niggas wanna clock me?
Like that dance called the Tati
Don't they know I break motherfuckers into parts like Rocky
Part I, part II, part III, niggas can't fuck with me My style's knock-kneed plum crazy (what?)
Who's that wild ass motherfucker catchin' wreck
Stickin' Jamaicans for sound sets outside discotheques
It's Klep the death specialist, Stallone and Stone shit
Stayin' high representin' for the nine-quint
Ras bad guy, burns the house down like Left Eye
Why try mimic? MC's get broke like speed limits (uhh)
Niggas can't fuck with my metaphors
Canin' MC's like they in Singapore; Klep been through more wars
Than Gump or Shore, put together catchin' leathers
On the regular, got that net, push me round and Dread stressin' a Trick ho, what the Dread won't know won't hurt
Robbin his workers for they work; now, WHOSE TURF IS THIS?
It's Klep's, the clothes wreckers'
Life interceptor, pussy collector
Got your bitch on my dick and I ain't even stressin' her
Check enough sex in her, my styles are regular
Junior M.A.F.I.A. clique moves in like the settlers
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
Throw gats to Giuliani
Flows tighter than pigeon punani, try me, die G Dangerous, since my daddy bust me out
The tip of his dick, Biggie Smalls with the wickedest shit
Spit clips, niggas split like bananas
Flavour like Tropicana; orange, mango, peach
I strangle each -- negro for they dough
Niggas get to bendin', got two cases, one pendin'
560 V-12 engine, women spinnin'
In 9−2-9 Mazda's, Tammy and Natasha
The menage-a-trois around my way
Like Ill and Al Skratch smokin' 50 sacks in the back of Ac's
Windows cracked, so sit back relax
Yo Vec, crush the hash, the Beretta's in the stash
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
What you doin' with yourself? Stone heart's the way to wealth
Indecisive thoughts make sentences get dealt
Money makes the world go round, robbin' shit
Fuck a job shit, niggas want cribs, bricks and spliffs
All-wheel automobiles, traction control
For clay roads, rollin' with dough, kickin' game
On the cell with bitches on hold, that's how we roll (uhh)
Rhymes now tight as hell so to the bank I stroll (uhh)
Money on my mind, open lips from my eyes
Reveal pupils shaped like dollar signs --
-- the world is mine!
Niggas frontin', feelin' twelve gauge pellets
B.I.G. is repellant, to all that «He say, she say»
We play, Russian roulette, fuck the threat
Your whole crew's vagina, you and your co-signer
Nigga, we rollin' in eight and a halfs, TV's in the dash
Three G's in the stash, see we love the cash
No coke, then get some more
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
Niggas say «Oh my lord!»
Niggas don't know bout my game, they don't know
How complex it is, baggin' bitches in GS 300 Lexuses
And the sex is for summer sports
Passports for drug transports to remote resorts
Bitches with Donna Karan «Catwoman» suits, matchin' figure boots
Haircut cute, on tops and garters like prostitutes
My lyrics explicit
Got bitches bringin' they own condoms on the first visit
If Biggie bring big bowls of beef
Backin' bitch niggas down, burners bring bundles of belief
Common thief, slash drug chief, syndicated
Went from 10 K, to 24 K and motherfuckers hate it
J.M. sedated, quarantined (uhh)
B.I.G. for President, buckin' shots past the spleen
9 millimeter dream, MAC-11 nightmares
Electric chairs, which MC's do you fear?
Big Poppa, Junior M.A.F.I.A., nuff said
Niggas disrespect just are dead...