Lyrics for Unknown by Project Pat :
(DJ Paul, intro)
Finally!
I got all real n*ggas on a motherf*ckin’ posse song!
n*ggas that’s down to cut some motherf*ckin heads!
From here to ATL, to Nashville, back to the M-Town, n*gga
And you know what that means, b*tch!

Makin’ easy money, pimpin’ hoes is serious, b*tch
Makin’ easy money, pimpin’ hoes is serious, n*gga!

(Verse 1, Project Pat)
Call a n*gga, drug dealer
Out here on the track n*gga
Weed smoker, coke snorter
Come and get a pack, n*gga
‘Cain slanger, b*tch banger
Dogg I bring it to ya
If you got a problem wit’ me
Holla at my Luger
‘Dro puffer, cheese cuffer
When we on the jack-jack
Hit’cha in the head wit’ that Gat
Til’ ya skull crack
Blood gushin’, head-rushin’
At first, no discussion
Come wit’ that bullsh*t
Then them bullets start bustin’

(Verse 2, Killa Klan Kaze)
First crime, we came wit’ “Mystic Stylez”
I rhyme, you slip
I “Live by my Rep”, don’t f*ck wit’ mine
“The End”, the souls of men
They beggin’ inside the posse
The Prophet, the Posse
We all collide, we brew
The trap-titute, to end they phase
I’m outty
And crime reminds Crazed in Last Days
Hypno-tize and blazed another gold plate
“Sixty-Six, Sixty-One”
The smoke cleared, evaporate

(Verse 3, Juicy J)
I got a three-fifty-seven
A Tech wit’ a black clip
A hundred-eighty pounds
Wit’ a fist that gon’ bust lips
Some killas on my side
If I tell ’em, they gon’ get
A fool violatin’ the business he ain’t wit’
And now in 2000, he talkin’ the same sh*t
And now in 2000, I bust and I won’t miss
The smoke is in the air
The liquor is still a fifth
The groupies still rollin’
The curls ain’t no kick foo

(Verse 4, Killa Klan Kaze)
The first one of us is done
Hollow-tips come by the ton
Wit’ two AK’s and plus a drum
To leave these n*gga’s bodies numb
I don’t talk this sh*t for fun
c*ck it back and let it go
Wit’ six shots, from the Three-6 shooters
Lettin’ ’em know, whoa
Picture me, naked-faced to kickin’ in yo door
Four, n*ggas deep, bandanas wit’ black Calico’s
So, when we creep, duck
Cause I might hit you nine times
Take yo nine lives
Jump up and hypnotize yo mind
Blaow!

(Verse 5, Crunchy Black)
You can believe this
You can believe that
And believe I got, a baseball bat
And I’m bustin’ yo head, black
And believe I’m comin’ strong
And believe I’m all grown
And believe, that n*gga I love to get it on
No half-steppin’, I gots the weapon
A Boom-Boom! I’m blastin’ at’cha
I’m out to get’cha, believe that
I love to kill, I love the thrill
And I love to put a n*gga’s body parts in the field, n*gga!

(Verse 6, La Chat)
I’m gon’ go blastin’ to get this b*tch
Ain’t got no time for no sh*t
Gotta hope my boys don’t make no noise
Just throw that trick in the ditch
Ain’t know way La Chat gon’ let’cha slide
Wit’ the sh*t that’cha done
I got my bruise on what I do
To show you folks one-by-one
A sheisty b*tch, without no punch
Just got no love in my heart
It ain’t no boy that I can’t handle
Keep that tone in my trunk
This ain’t no threat, I speak the truth
Gotta come too thick to get me
I’m warnin’ you hoes before you come
That that ain’t gon’ be easy

(Verse 7, Koopsta Knicca)
Man a b*tch’ll take that loot
Without a pus*y for them papers
Get the f*ck away from me, ho!
Because the Koop can’t stand the vapors
Take her, break her, to whoop that funky b*tch
Talkin’ that sh*t about this man
You gets yo chest up in yo arm, b*tch
Yeaah, we can do it
Take yo time, do it right
You can give me the f*ckin’ chew
And I could f*ck ya all night
Wanna fight about’cho friends
See how that be, just don’t start
See now that’s that type of sh*t
That get my muh’f*ckin di*k hard

(Verse 8, T-Rock)
Gather the Mac-11’s and load ’em full of ammunition
Terrorist sets, we pull him like I’m in the Expedition
All seven n*ggas, got guns equivelent to what we pack
Nuclear pistols, and fire-scorchin’ automatic Gats
How in the f*ck can you handle the
Busted amateur
Toss the b*tch over the banister
Like trash canisters
Hollow-points into yo gathered troops
When I have to shoot
Plus I be storin’ the calf of you
And drinkin’ Absolute

(Verse 9, Killa Klan Kaze)
I woke up early Saturday mornin’
Cellular phone was ringin’ off the charger
Thinkin’ to myself, man is it a b*tch?
A cop or, it’s them robbers
Pardon Mr. Mac, off in the scheme
I’m stangin’ for my dividends
And pay a livin’, ain’t makin no brother
My cheese gon’ reach the ceiling-fan
You can catch me in that burgandy thang
On grizzle when you see me
You can joke me and provoke me
Best believe the bleedin’ is ig’nant
f*ck the reason and the treason
When time to get dirty, n*gga bet our prophet
You was gaspin’ for yo last breath
All I heard was Killa Klan Kaze

(Verse 10, DJ Paul)
These b*tches think we playin’
Think this killa sh*t a joke
Come f*ck around wit’ HCP
And get’cho ass smoked, ho
Comin’ wit’ some fully-auto’s
f*ck some semi’s
Hit him wit’ some hollow-auto’s
Cause I despis-ise
Blast ’em like some ralo bate’s
For y’all mayates
Equipped wit’ double clips and duct-tape
And wicked wiz-ays
And I prefer it keep me busy in my free-time
Caught ’em in the curry, and I’m knowin’ they wanna re-wind
Give you second thoughts about that business you didn’t finish, right?
Took you to the vault, cash it in, all-night flight
And I’m in a bad mood
Cocaine make it that
Plus I got east holder
Nine-mili willy, n*gga I slang wit’ that

(DJ Paul)
b*tch!
n*gga, HCP
n*gga, HCP
Hypnotize Camp Posse, n*gga
What! What!
HCP, n*gga
HCP, Hypnotize Camp Posse