Testo 1, 2, 3 - Lost Boyz
Testo della canzone 1, 2, 3 (Lost Boyz), tratta dall'album Legal Drug Money
Get Talib on the phone
(Beep him, beep him)
Yo, ayo, what's goin' on man?
What y'all niggas doin' man?
Beef man? Come on, what you talkin' 'bout them shits man?
Yo, I'm tryin' to just chill man, understand me?
I'm tryin' to get my shit together, man
I got a little man, kid, you know what I'm sayin'?
I got my little brothers to take care of man
My moms just passed away and shit, you understand me, man?
I'm not even tryin' to hear that beefin' shit no more, man
If niggas want it we can bring it, you know what I'm sayin'?
But if not just chill, man, word up
I don't need shit
Mad niggas think they got problems
Dumb funny
Dumb fuckin' funny
You got problems, nigga?
I got fuckin' problems, nigga
The LBs got problems, you understand?
(Ten years man, doin' a bid)
It's a lotta niggas out there
That ain't representin' the right way, man
And that's enough fuckin' problems right there, man
And this how LB's is doin' 94 kid
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
Problems, Lou got problems
Cheeks got problems, got problems, 3000 problems (one, two, three thousand problems)
Got problems
One, two, three thousand problems
It's a cool summer night
My .44s on my waist, got a half a stick of dynamite
Got some beef with some niggas across town
Beat my man to the ground, I gotta shut 'em down
They roll up on my block
I'm in my little brown hoodie, so they guess I want the white rock
They walk close towards my ride (ayo)
Surprise motherfucker! It's a hit from the Southside
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
I went two to his head
I jumped on the Southern State then I busted out the Hempstead
One down and one to go
I heard the next nigga's home and he's countin' up all the dough
I kick in the nigga's door
I slapped the nigga in the jaw with my nickel plated .44
And word up, y'all shoulda saw
The way this nigga hit the floor when the freaky got raw
Some bitch tried to burst, but I shot her in the back
(Ayo, money, where your stash at?)
He took me back inside this room
Beside the safe full of G's, he had mad bags of booms
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
What am I to do?
I call up the underground, let me speak to that nigga Lou
He said, "Talib, what's up my man?"
I got this nigga locked down with my joint to his gut
And word up, he got a mad rep
Ayo, money, what's his address?
"1245 Boulevard Quicksand"
And tell my man to drive the Caravan
Understand I'm on a mission
And just be nice to pack some extra ammunition
And get some Phillies from the store
Yo, park the van on the corner and yo
I'm comin' through the side door
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
They arrived there on the double
Money beggin' and repeatin' that he don't want trouble
I told my Lou to move the chairs
Ayo G, help me take this damn bitch down the stairs
I come back up for a session
Money still tied the fuck up confessin'
I blow some smoke into his eyes
Here nigga, take two more pulls before you die
I stood up, about faced him
Ayo, Lost Boyz waste him
Ayo, Queensboro waste him
Ayo, Southside waste him
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
It's three o'clock in the mornin'
Shit is on, motherfucker, shit is on
I gotta get this nigga Shawn
I'm drivin' in this stolen car with no motherfuckin' license
I heard Shawn got crazy ends
But before I do this hit, I go and pick up my best friend
A 40-ounce and let the feels ride
I got this hit up on Hillside
Understand that he's a goner
I roll all my Windows down, park my shit on the corner
But I'm still bein' sneaky, 'cause I'm freaky Talib
I'm freaky, Talib
But right now, I got beef with this nigga named Shawn
Shit is on, word is bond, money is gone
He's with his bitch in bed
I pull out my .44, but I don't put it to his head
'Cause this shit is too easy
Even though he can go with what's freezy
It's crazy mysteries, LB's'll be the one to solve 'em
One, two, three, three thousand problems
One, two, three thousand problems
Ayo, word to my mother
It's all about keepin' it real on the streets, you understand?
You dig where the fuck I'm comin' from?
Ayo, it's all about the game, see?
Wine, dine, the whole nine
Champagne, cocaine, earrings, the whole shabbang
Ayo, ayo, Lost Boyz, we out guys, chill
Credits
Writer(s): Bernd Wendlandt, Ingo Politz, Johannes Stolle, Thomas Stolle, Stefanie Kloss, Andreas Jan Nowak, Joerg Weisselberg
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