Twelve thugs on drugs packin’ mad heat were about to shoot at me,
They was talking smack when I clapped back carefree and happily,
I was young but then again I was seventeen just like my magazine,
‘Cause my glock nine had more speed and rhyme than they had ever seen.
They started spraying but I was praying the Lord to afford me aim,
Suckers took cover like little bitches when they saw my tracers flame,
One drunk punk got hit in the junk when a bullet ricocheted,
And the prick yelled “Ah! My dick” then they all quickly felt afraid.
They fired uninspired while I was wired without dread or fear,
The lame brains saw that the aim from my pistol was crystal clear,
They stopped trippin’ cus I was pickin’ ‘em off one by one,
Ninety two bullets missed my mullet until they I said I won.
I’m just bullshittin’ –
Wally has always been my nickname, I know it ain’t that cool,
Roo just rhymes with ‘92, the year I graduated school.