Discover the poetic beauty in ‘Mayhem’ by A-1. This lyric breakdown takes you on a journey through the artist’s thoughts, emotions, and the story they aim to tell. From clever metaphors to evocative imagery, we delve into the nuances that make this song a lyrical masterpiece. Whether you’re a fan of A-1 or a lover of well-crafted words, our detailed analysis will give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of this song.
Bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout.
Bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout.
Me and my guys be lurking the streets, plottin’, upside-down smiling,
Bummin’; no matter skully, hoods, bandannas, bullets.
Stocking caps, ski masks, loced out, murder-one classes.
Those who wallop, hocked up, chopped tattooes permanent creased.
Survival one jeans.
Throw away his real ooze machines, Chinese AK zooms, razorblades,
Jerry Curls, finger waves, and French braids.
Labeled him sinner; look out for that motherfucker – he might rob ya.
Niggas come tatted up head in a body slang.
Well it’s your nigga Big Bonna; niggas be creeping up on ya.
Doing for the juggler; niggas trying to slug ya.
Catch a nigga doing all kinds of nasty things.
Oh, what I feel is mayhem brings.
You see us on the block; we doing our thuggin’; the gottie
Got the whole cap wondering who the f*ck shottie.
Lookin’ for the body; tell me what they found?
His head in Richmond, the rest in the V-town.
Thinking about the set up, trying to get my red up.
‘Bout my cock this tech-nine and get you wet up, blue.
So what the f*ck they want to do?
Seem like we got the vas of these niggas,
Caught cash, and thought we was through.
So f*ck this old bat shit; I’ll get the gat, bitch,
And probably blow your brains out.
Looking to get my cap fit,
Thinking they all acted up and while I’m at yo’ ass
I’ll probably put the fucking slugs in you ass.
(Causing Havoc’s, marking up chaos, bringing the ruckus,
Ghetto metal heathens, mobbing under bucks.
(If you can’t beat us then join us.)
Get on the team; street sweepers, grenades, rafts, and M-1 cambiums.
It’s a cold piece of work; I just wait,
‘Cause the way niggas are in the baby plan ain’t too safe.
Niggas will run up in yo’ car and try to take your face.
Move up out the plan so I trust no one take nothing for granted.
Expanded double-o chill; hillside hillbilly like changed clammit,
Dammit.
Us niggas is deep and do improved latex.
Found out where he slept and latest wave caps.
Tycoons; this business is really too bad,
That our biatches find our villa skates,
Sit up at the roundtable, and discuss
Trish ish batteries and territory issues.
By any means necessary, so in your chest I bury two buck shots.
So who got six niggas next to carry?
Of these want-to-be’s, niggas they gonna see.
If you motherfuckers put some that tatoned to me.
You see these niggas can’t flip doing things that sick. (Like what?)
Cut off your damn dick, make you eat your own shit,
But I love a little mayhem; f*ck it, we can do it.
Don’t make me get off that masso candy and some fluid.
(Causing Havoc’s, marking up chaos, bringing the ruckus,
Ghetto metal heathens, mobbing under bucks.
(If you can’t beat us then join us.)
Get on the team; street sweepers, grenades, rafts, and M-1 cambiums.
Uh, uh, a element of surprise getting my gig on.
Split yo’ house in half, with a dreadlock wig on.
When you do ya hot ones, shoot locus.
It’s the reflection program dinner rolls; automatic hit the floor.
Dump, bust, blast, bare faces.
Strike, dip, mass like a mental patient.
Run, quick, fast, and in a hurry; (biatch)
Don’t worry, forty vision ain’t blurry.
It’s like military issues; make you wish you never got an example.
Stalking niggas like a bitch do.
Can only ride so long with that fake shit; I take shit
To the limit with no gimmick, in ninety-eight, bitch.
So f*ck what you say, and f*ck what you play.
I down it straight, and can’t wait to hear what you bitch niggas gotta say.
If I can’t keep it real you can kill me, so feel me ’cause
I bring things to the game for my scuzzie.
We’ll kick a nigga’s door in; hit and lick you brags.
Now you ridding in a fan, pulled tight and gag.
Then they pullin’ up out the Glad bags – the hefty type.
(But you niggas ain’t got no kind of idea what a chopped up body looks like.)
Then them niggas start to pull down your Levis,
And bust you in the head with ruggard P 85’s.
Call a mortician; call mark class somebody in this motherfucker.
‘Bout to come up missin’; best believe.
(Causing Havoc’s, marking up chaos, bringing the ruckus,
Ghetto metal heathens, mobbing under bucks.
(If you can’t beat us then join us.)
Get on the team; street sweepers, grenades, rafts, and M-1 cambiums.
(Causing Havoc’s, marking up chaos, bringing the ruckus,
Ghetto metal heathens, mobbing under bucks.
(If you can’t beat us then join us.)
Get on the team; street sweepers, grenades, rafts, and M-1 cambiums.
Bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout.
Bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout, bout.