Rollin` Lyrics

Rollin` lyrics

Nineteen ninety mother fuckin six
That's that shit though
Get the
motherfuckin Squad packed
We got to pull these shoes out like carpet, word
is bond
Test the crew with the guns and let's get this shit on

Why,
must I be like that? Why, must I pack the gat?
On my left, niggaz be rollin
with the ruckus
Ready to get deep bust rounds upon some suckaz
Heard PPP
and LOD is a bunch of crazy motherfuckers
Journey to the land is on
The
winner of the spittin bomb marathon
The fuck you up lyrathon, whatever you
choose
prepare to lose that title
Turnin vital situations suicidal, my
idols, is my Uncles
who started smokin weed outta bibles
Gave me a puff
when I bust my first rifle
Men-estration cycles, I give bitches
Bring
your craziest nigga, I'll give stitches
Whateva, go crew for crew, blow for
blow
Bang your headpiece and sniff the snow off your hoe
I keep it
rollin...

Ask yourself man
How ugly do you have to be to be a
hardcore MC?
Niggaz be fooled by my plaques and my light skin
complexture
My whole texture is bombin, destroyin da schools of the
wack
From the Land of the Lost, you get tossed
Listen to my veloc(ity),
my crew's comin off
Yeah, more sneaky than casino switches
Diggin ditches
for all Moskino bitches
Clockin decimal figures, I'm gettin out
diggers
Now my choice of truck is a Land
cause a Landcruise much
bigger
It pack two to three more niggaz
Damn I hate a golddigger
Yeah,
gimme that microphone
I make opponents shit bricks like Tyson's home
I
keep the jacked cellular phone blown in three zones
Love seafood and keep my
nine millimis chrome
So it can shine up your dome
When I proceed to give
you what you need and clear spots like Sea Breeze
Wreckin your ass
armaggedeon style
Twenty four seven while
My crew chin check your
profile
(Rollin...)

I'm the master of disaster, super rhyme
maker
Grimy by nature, database maker
Play em out like Sega,
Saturn
Blow your blocks in patterns for about nine acres
Testes, crew
wearin bulletproof and double S's
Karl Kani down, camoflouge can't hide the
sounds
of a fo' pound (boo-yaa)
Givin you Six Flags, bustin merry go
rounds
But my crew stay ill with that unreal appeal
I be the raw water,
my cheek bones outta have gills
below like the opera
Smooth on the
trigger for all you block cockers
I be the key to criminology
Blast and
rotate enemies at three buck sixty
Pick me, as your Senator
Take the dove
from your battlefield son, fuck Pat Benatar
Run, head for the hills
Back
in the day, these niggaz rolled up on me with
the trunk filled with Bomber
Brooklyns, sheeps and quartervilles
Aiyyo take that shit, aiyyo Money snap
the grill
Body caught chills as he ate this nine mil
Mine kills two but
my nine was sign sealed
And ready to deliver, but Money had me too
close
to reach for toast, soon as that nigga blink I broke ghost
Dash
back to South Orange Ave with dollar bill to smoke dope
I keep em
rollin...

This is DJ SAY WHAT?? on this motherfucker
Sayin the dick
is long, but my time is short
Before I go, just remember
If your box
ain't on FDS radio, you're fuckin up