The Clock Is Tickin' Lyrics

Woodie

Bullets fly
Quicker than the eye
As you was hittin' maryjane
To ease the pain
Your homie died
Muthaf*cka I'mma ride
Til the rallies on steel
I'm in the bushes camouflaged
Ain't thinkin' 'bout no clientele
If I fail I rot in jail
And if I succeed
I burn in hell
So either way I'm f*cked in these streets
The bible says I live my life wrong
Statistics say I'll die young
I can't disagree 'cause I'm a f*ckin' walkin' time-bomb
The clock is tickin'
Fingers itchin'
To unleash a beast
And thirty-two empty homies
That are dyin' to feast
Upon your flesh, you wanna kill me?
Sucka really?
You're the type to pull your strap
And shoot holes in the ceiling
You're not cut out for killing
Sucka give it up
Put your strap aside ride to the club
And live it up...
I'm to the cuts!

[Chorus x3]
(I'm to the cuts!)
Out to the cuts
The clock is tickin'
Finger's itchin'
In the bushes camouflaged
Waiting for my victim

I never thought that I would live to see the age of twenty-one
I grew up paranoid one eye open sleepin' with my gun
Fifty dollars bought my first strap, a sawed-off one shot gauge
Since the day I let it blaze I've been stuck in evil ways
And amazed, at the power that it could devour
Strip that O.G. of his reputation in that late night hour
Shells showered left the situation soured with funk
But ain't no stoppin' the poppin' that gets to droppin these punks
I found my callin' so I hooked up with some natural born killaz
Preferring forty-five calibers over nine millaz
The five-o's out to peel us so I creep with caution
Steppin' out a skylark on them red chucks flossin'
Hoggin', I be that mutha f*cka that you hate
Cause you know I'll take that clip and slap it in and test your fate
And demonstrate that yoc influenced state of mind that I'm stuck
Up in committin' sin with a devilish grin, I gives a f*ck
I'm to the cuts!

[Chorus x4]
(I'm to the cuts!)
Out to the cuts
The clock is tickin'
Finger's itchin'
In the bushes camouflaged
Waiting for my victim

Creepin', crawlin'
Strap not fallin'
But got a box of ammo
For the weapon that I'm haulin'
The streets are callin'
So I'm comin' with artillery
And chucks and khakis
As I move up on my enemies
A pedigree soldier
Yeah that's were the foul
Northern Cal profile
Nothin' less I confess
I'm a sinner
But how can I show remorse
Cuz I can't afford to let the Bible
Throw me off course
I'm known to rivals
When I gotta make these
Sucka's skull crack
It could be better than
Havin' my chips and a yacht
And bet the whole stack
Do or die
Make these muthaf*ckas understand
That they're tryin' to touch
A particle that they can't comprehend
Can't pretend to be a soldier
When your a punk
Cuz it'll hold ya
Hog tied in the trunk
And name one chump
Run your mouth
And now you're bent up like a slut
Should have kept your pistol cocked
F*ckin' with this Yoc murderer

[Chorus x4]
(I'm to the cuts!)
Out to the cuts
The clock is tickin'
Finger's itchin'
In the bushes camouflaged
Waiting for my victim

I'm to the cuts! [echoes out]

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