[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]