[Intro] (Alternating between Paul Wall and Juelz Santana)
Baby
Juelz Santana
Boy Paul Wall
Yea, I mean I know there’s a lotta haters on yo side
Ya, ya, ya I know they over there hatin on yo side too
Oh yeah, but you know we don’t give a fuck about them niggas
Fuck em

[Chorus]
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
We be mad slow, Mean mug
Creepin through ya hood

[Juelz Santana]
I’m down and I’m dirty with this
I’m down to get dirty, ya bitch
Aw man, aw damn, the pound is just hurtin my hip
Fuck with me I’ll show ya how them pounds and birdies get flipped
Play around clown, you’ll get found in the dirtiest ditch
He like, “Y’all don’t give a fuck about who?” (Bout who)
I’m like, “We don’t give a fuck about you.” (Bout you)
Hat low to the front
Lean back smokin a blunt
A! See that button? Hit that, dope in the trunk
Nope coke in the trunk, nope both in the trunk
Up, that gun is on my hip too, I be hopin you stunt
You don’t want my niggas creepin through ya hood
You don’t want my niggas creepin through ya wood
You don’t wanna see that pistol in ya face
Homeboy, you don’t want my niggas creepin leavin with ya goods
So don’t play like that (don’t)
Don’t act like that (don’t)
If you ain’t like that, you know,

[Chorus]

[Paul Wall]
I got them windows tinted five percent
Presidential limo tint
I can see you, but you can’t see me
223 with extended clip
Them 50 shots gon set it off
It’s a fire drill, bitch drop an roll
Gimme dat watch, Gimme dat chain
Empty them pockets and pay the toll
I hang wit killers out on parole
Catch ya cut, run and hide
Evacuate, murder for hire
Kinda like ol barb from the wire
We’ll chop you up like garlic cloves
and cook ya ass like emmeril the chef
Take ya last breath, put on ya vest
But im aimin at ya head boy, not ya chest
I pack the nine, I start to dine
Hit them legs and crease ya up
Then I hit the spot wit a bad bitch
they'll slob the knob and piece me up
And when you wake up in the mornin
To the sounds of them choppas roarin
I’ll wear the heat just like Alonzo
And leave ya whole family in mournin
I’m in the hood, like wig shops
I’m on the grind, on the block
Posted up like Yao Ming
In the low post, I’m on the box
We’ll chop ya up like a screw tape
and have ya hollerin like the opera
but when my sidekick goin off
I ain’t talkin bout no T-mobile partna

[Chorus]