Lyric | Song |
Rhymes is rugged like burnt buildings in Harlem, the Old Dirty Bastard from the temple of Shaolin | |
I'm a addict for sneakers 20s of buddha and bitches with beepers, in the streets I can greet ya about blunts I teach ya | |
I get action so everybody jump with ya rump, if ya like the way it sounds punk pump it in your back trunk | |
I heard pook and tyriq caught a beef over some real ****, a fake **** faked and they killed his clique | |
I got a job with the mob making Gs, doin' some pick-ups deliveries and transportin ki's | |
Bitches relax while I get my proper swerve on, bumpin' like a **** ready to get my serve on | |
You on point Tip? All the time Phife | |
Number four: know ya heard this before, never get high on your own supply | |
I got a love jones for your body and your skin tone, five minutes alone I'm already on the bone | |
| Lyric | Song |
I'm fly as a falcon, soarin through the sky And I'm high till I dizzie, rizzide | |
Hospital days, reflectin when my man laid up On the Uptown high block he got his side sprayed up | |
Mindcrusher, spinecrusher, Brooklyn been banging Making noise from the US to Russia | |
every man for theirself in this land we be gunnin' and keep them shook crews runnin' | |
Yeah they still play hide and seek, the fiends seek for the crack and they hide and let the cops peep | |
On the regular, not a church girl, she was secular Not about the money, no studs was mic checkin her | |
It's ironic i had the brew she had the chronic, the Lakers beat the Supersonics | |
I wanna have me a phat yacht, and enough land to go and plant my own sess crops | |
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