The 6th Letter - 1992 Lyrics

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The 6th Letter – 1992 Lyrics

I take a hit of the weed
And hit a punk to the pentacle,
Way past the physical
Direction, hope stalling,
I make you take down like you’re into it
I’m making shit down like the indicals.
Fucking sell a pussy in the equilibrium
And kicking those dope rats all over the tracks
I represent the north side, on the map.
I go home one time, where you at?
Flipping crack off the drafts in the hood.
So I’m preaching that. 24 something
I got’s the grams, you got the snaps on the snacks
The flows like Poseidon I go at it like wazzabi
All these niggers rapping, taking a funk,
They looking sloppy. I eat a month, I got the munchies.
Please, let the jew play the cut, hell of comfort.

[Chorus] Like 1 to the 2 to the 3 to the 4
The nigger with the zipper from the realistic flow.
Miau, with that shit you’ll make the girls fr sure.
No lie, for the hood I’ll put the shit, for sure.
To the funkie.

Aye, yo, I talk junk, I spit diamonds.
I make the crew fat, saw me a rapping,
I ain’t money, down to be permanent, the flow so making it
I might kidnap your girlfriend and make her wabbling.
Then make a smart dick. Better keep a lie on the Maker
’cause when we damn move you should be following.
You should love me, with the feel to know me
And know I be on the balcon making dough
Kicking it with the hommies and it’s like this
Take a few calls and send it right there
Make the moves, make the notion, flowing like they knows you
Couple of pause on that boy Cliff got it open
And books, when you read them, they should never let you sing them

[Chorus] Like 1 to the 2 to the 3 to the 4
The nigger with the zipper from the realistic flow.
Miau, with that shit you’ll make the girls fr sure.
No lie, for the hood I’ll put the shit, for sure.
To the funkie.

I just sent a peace out to my niggers on the grounds.
Don’t eat shit! Keep the faith and stay patient.
Live from the basement and niggers keep flows on and bassing.
Gold digging hoes, better know you getting naked
From the GOD I be low key
Pollie with my club brothers in the DOT
I flow proper, you see these 8’s they be opera
All about that gold hunt proper.
It’s dumb slayer, too for funky rhyme slayer
Peep the flavor, they be the type that you savor.
Can’t get enough of real fakers.
All my clothes all stink from the death I be coaching.
Baking that cake ’till it’s crispy and coke it!

[Lyrics to 1992 by The 6th Letter]


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