1990-Sick (Kill ’Em All) (Original)

Lyrics

[Chorus: Spice 1] Kill em all (4X) Cause everybody dyin on this motherfuckin album Kill em all (4X) Don't kick up in the dirt when I'm puttin in work Kill em all (4X) Cause everybody dyin on this motherfuckin album [Verse 1: Spice 1] I murda like this (this) I murda like that (that) Pull an AK-47 up out my motherfuckin gangsta hat Professional Columbian Necktie, barbwire Strangler, over killa, dead fuckin body hanga Peepin out the window with an A.K., pullin up on these copper Helicoptas, squad cars, swat teams with choppers They tellin me, "Nigga, get the fuck out before ya die If you surrender, we'll make sure that you quickly fry" Should I kick open the door and go to war Or should I slit my throat Leave a pipe bomb and a fuck you note Hallucinations of seein lynched bodies burnin And all the po-po had faces like Mark Fuhrman Tear gas through my glass window pane They wanna put me back up in the nut house again But I'm not goin back and take my prozac They can keep the straight jacket And leave a straight motherfuckin jack A straight motherfuckin jack A straight motherfuckin jack [Chorus: Spice 1] (Get the hell off my dick, I'm 1990-sick) (1990-sick) *repeat 4X* [Verse 2: Spice 1] Nigga's to pull the lynch, yayo case and stick Marcia Clark screamin out murda, jumpin on OJ's dick Motherfuckers still sufferin and healin Some high technology white boys blew up the fuckin fed buildin Crazy niggas still bangin and slangin crack To the death, when the game put em up on they back Motherfuckers catchin AIDS, from shootin hop And phony niggas still get sprayed up on the block And I ain't changed much, hell I'm still smokin four or five motherfuckin choppers before it's twelve Motherfuckers think they know me, but they don't know I'm sellin first class tickets to the murda show Don't wanna rap about no nigga, let's get it on Bustin domes, buck shots through your rib bone So all you niggas up in the magazines talkin shit Get off my dick, I'm 1990-sick [Chorus] [Verse 3] Mobbin' up out the cut ready to pow one 90-sick content of the album If there's a kill for this, don't kill me, I'm coming with the fury Playa haters getting hung up like a jury So peep the game, I'm an old school G you know so well The East Bay gangster, leaving caution tape faces pale I bails, sathe full moon after 12 O'clock Neighborhood watch scared to see who on the block Just federallis, no popo come around here Cause it's a different time, different game, different year 1990-sick [Chorus]