Текст Three 6 Mafia – Beatem To Da Floor

Juicy J
So this is what I’m a do man, you know what I’m sayin’
I’m a get each of you niggas, you know what I’m sayin’
From the bay by the b-ball piece, when you see this nigga

DJ Paul
See this how ass kickin’ get down, your boys get
(Beat down!)
Your bitches get
(Beat down!)
Your brothers get
(Beat down!)
Your mothers get
(Beat down!)
Your cousins get
(Beat down!)
And any nigga that try to clown we leavin’ em on the ground
’cause we stomp a hole, until his ass throw up, and after that
Them signs is gettin’ thrown up, I’m answer to the right
I’m answer to the left, we snatchin’ your chain and check
Your pockets till nothin’ left

Crunchy Black
I’m a crunk this nigga though, treat ’em like a hoe
Ask these little bitches what the fuck they hittin’ for
Crunchy ain’t a hoe, and Crunchy can’t go, and
Crunchy ain’t a nigga that you wanna fuck with low
If you didn’t know, then nigga you can know, then meet me
Down foo in the middle of the floor, I’ma break it down slow

Pre-chorus:
I’m gonna’ whoop this nigga
I’m gonna’ whoop this nigga
I’m gonna’ take it outside click click (Boom!) with the trigger
I’m gonna’ rob this boy, I’m gonna’ mob this boy
I’m gonna’ call the fucking killers do a job on this boy

Chorus:
We gonna’ beat em to the floor, we gonna’ beat em to the floor x4

Lord Infamous
You don’t know what just happened
You suffering from a fracture
You rebel let me catch you, I’ll beat you belly bastard
You have a bad concussion, from triple six bone rushin’
You all beat up and busted, you shouldn’t have pressed that button
You all bloody and bumy, you yellin’ for you mommy
And people think it’s funny, quit tryin’ to out run me
Your eyes are blue and black and, your clothes are ripped and tackin’
You thought that you could hack it, you shouldn’t have wore that jacket

Juicy J
’cause I wreck it, smith and west and my weapon, we steppin’
To let the still meet your chest and, don’t play with these killers
They come from those parts, the north where niggas be pullin’
The whole cart, so mister big player mister big time player
You got the shit on lock why you on my dick
Like a bitch walkin’ around like you stone high
Hollow tip bullets don’t die, nigga they multiply

Pre-chorus
Chorus