Z - The R.O.C. - Lyrics - The Dynasty: Roc La Familia 2000 - Jay

Title: Z - The R.O.C.
Album: The Dynasty: Roc La Familia 2000
Artist: Jay
Composer(s): Malik Cox, Dwight Grant, Justin Smith

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
Nah, motherfucker
We be the R.O.C., y'all get your dope from us
We runs the R.O.C., yeah, keep up niggaz, c'mon

Aiyyo, you niggaz talk a lotta nuthin', like you always God or sumthin'
Like you always shot at sumthin', niggaz never shot at nuthin'
Like you shotty sumthin', like you body sumthin'
Nigga, your body duckin' is nuthin', you're bluffin'

You niggaz talk shit like you draw quick
But when the 4's grip, I floor quick, you, your man, your bullshit
Your man bullshit? Might get him four quick
All up in his fore shit, c'mon, stop the bullshit

It's B Sig, dog, straight in da league, y'all
Straight out da school yard, Hoover, I schooled y'all
Now school's out, lights out, tools out
You fools out, c'mon, y'all pick a new route

While I pick the new flow, kick it to your new ho'
To get next to your new dough
Your new crack spot, you know Mac steal crack to crack pot
Niggaz, know I spit on every track hot

It's the R.O.C., stop
From Tower to ma an' pop, we move out the stop
R.O.C., stop
We shower your mom, block an' move out with glocks

It's the R.O.C., stop
From Tower to ma an' pop, we move out the stop
R.O.C., stop
We shower your mom, block an' move out with glocks

Aiyyo, this for my Gs, hoes, gangstas, foes
Niggaz, who get dough, rep for get lo
I got cake, weight, shanks, eights
Bank, bitch, act straight

I'm hot, son, stop, son, they livin' a lie, duke
You plot, son, I pop one, still in the sky, duke
M to the A to the R C Y, duke
Niggaz die here, can't nothin' revive you

I'm still here, niggaz, see what I drive through
Sittin' on dubs with screens inside too
I'm simply street, I'm Memphis Bleek
Catch me with them green jars in the tinted jeep

On, B L A Ds I get C L A Ps
Catch me not givin' a fuck, I'm on these L.A. trees
One for Sigel, Sigel, two for the Jigga an'
Three for a million an' four for Memph Man

It's the R.O.C., stop
From Tower to ma an' pop, we move out the stop
R.O.C., stop
We shower your mom, block an' move out with glocks

It's the R.O.C., stop
From Tower to ma an' pop, we move out the stop
R.O.C., stop
We shower your mom, block an' move out with glocks

Aiyyo, you shouldn't have been talkin' that
Like you was walkin' that an' mac with this mac
An' let off fifty shots where you be walkin' at
Where your apartment at, you fuck around
An' have me creepin' in the dark where you be often at

Or where you be creepin' at, where your birds be
Oops mean chirpin' at, damn I'm hurtin' that
Workin' that, spittin' that shit like that's on purpose
That's some freestyle shit, I don't know
Hey, playboy, take that back a bit

Yo, you shouldn't have been talkin' that
Like you was walkin' that an' mac with this mac
An' let off fifty shots, where you be walkin' at
Where your apartment at, you fuck around
Have me creepin' in the dark where you be often at

Or where you be creepin' at, sleepin' at
Where your birds be cheepin' at
Oops, mean chirpin' that, damn, I be workin' that
Hurtin' that, aiyyo, playboy, curtains that

It's the R.O.C., stop
From Tower to ma an' pop, we move out the stop
R.O.C., stop
We shower your mom, block an' move out with glocks

R.O.C., stop
R.O.C., mom, block an' move out with glocks
Y'all can't fuck with us
Unstoppable Roc, y'all can't fuck with us
Unstoppable Roc y'all can't fuck with us
Unstoppable Roc, y'all can't fuck with us

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8389736999f41931ec7baef90b6f65ca

4 Da Fam - Lyrics - Amil

Title: 4 Da Fam
Artist: Amil
Composer(s): Tyrone Fyffe, Shawn Carter, Malik Cox, Amil Whitehead, Dwight Grant

Lyric:
This ones for the family
[Incomprehensible]
For the dynasty, a million
[Incomprehensible]
Check it out, yo

Aiyo, this time it's for my family, we ride or die
It's in the blood 'til the death, now aim for the sky
My four blow fo show, fo doe, for only
It's money, drugs and hot slugs you know bleek

Squeeze hammers t'il they nail me, fuck what niggas tell me
Street scholar, keep firin' is what they tell me
Drug chemist, thug nigga be named Memphis
Straight from da borough of dem B.K. niggas

Where we rob for the fun of it, hustle for the drug of it
Rap money in rubber-bands, just for the love of it
Straight from my ghetto, we listen to heavy metal like
Desert eagles, street sweepers, loud metal

It's hit an run now, motherfuck anyone of you
We dem niggas be in ya crib just like furniture
Pop up with the gun in ya
Release one for zero-zero M Bleek R O C dot com

This philly cat back at it
Still throwin' crack at it
Still fuckin' with them crack-atics
Still bust 'em with them black matics

It's ain't the bucks, it's the rush
You tryin' to get my ass at it
They say I think ass backwards
Fuck how I act, as long as I stack, it's all mathematics

Our tracks nice, hug the block ta tract dice
Late night, club night, mac attract dikes
I pull up, Cadillac truck nice
Two guns, you know mac pack gat twice

Gets that crack back wit that ice
No joke wit the coke, I wips that right
No doubt, never droubt, gets that price
It gets that nice, when you live that live

Papi knows yours name
And you ditched that wife
Nigga it's gets stacked green nigga
It gets stacked chain nigga

I get forty G's a feature now
Hold Franklin's like a Aretha now
In the SL two seater now
And I'm in nuthin' but diamonds

I'm the illest female that you heard thus far
Five-five with the thirty-four B-cup bra
I fuck wit dem cats who ain't up to par
I get niggas for cash, clothes, jeweleries, plus cars

I'm talkin' rent money, I'm talkin' bank money
I'm talkin' Martha Keats step of with the rent money
Movin' on up, two in the sauna
Still ride through the block, pull up on the corna, plus

Give me an inch so I can take a mile
I bring life like a new born naked child
Bitches tryin' ta come up, gotta wait a while
As of now, Amil-lion just played ya style, you dealin' with, nigga

The, the roc, the the, the roc
(Let me talk to y'all niggas real quick)
The, the roc, uh uh, the roc

Yo, y'all niggas truly ain't ready for this dynasty thing
Y'all thinkin' Blake Carrington, I'm thinkin' more like "ming
I got four nephews, and they all right in
They all young and wild, plus they all like things

And I'm havin' a child, which is more frighting
But y'all about to witness is big business kid
Big bosses, cocky, and big benzsesses
Come through flossin'em shiny rims it is

An office don't pop up in their sentences
I think you understand what type of event this is
I don't think you know I focus young Memphis is
Or I see was so real, when you add on Amil

This is much more than rap, it's black entrepreneur
Clothin', movie, and films, we come to conquer it all
Roc-A-Wear, eighty mill like, eighteen months
You could bullshit wit rap if you want, muthafuckers
When it's all said and done, we gon' see what's what
Holla at Hov, I'll be in the cut what

It's the, the roc, the the, the roc
It's the, the roc, the the roc
You rollin' with the roc
Dynasty niggas, that's right like no other

It's the, the roc, the the, the roc [Incomprehensible]
It's the, the roc, the the, the roc [Incomprehensible]
[Incomprehensible]
[Incomprehensible]

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fceda42fd65c036589216acdf639e5e2

Change The Game (Remix) - Lyrics - Dj Clue

Title: Change The Game (Remix)
Artist: Dj Clue
Composer(s): Steven Garrett, Ricardo Thomas, Shawn Carter, Dwight Grant

Lyric:
Daz Dillinger
Talk to 'em
Kurupt young Gotti
Talk to 'em
Big Jigga nigga, what?
Come on

Psycho, like no, bitch ass nigga so
When you see the D O double G sneak creep low
In the memory of the Notorious B.I.G., Tupac Shakur
Psycho, like no, bitch ass nigga so
When you see the R O to the C sneak creep low
Young Hova in the house, world wide hustler
R O C, D P G motherfuckers

Hold up love
You know Jigga man resume, blow up drugs
Blast round, full pound, no mask or gloves
Face down on the gravel, have gun will travel
Out the blue steel barrel get ya crew killed
Perro ass niggaz can't touch I, muh'fucker what's my
Name, Young Hov', gun blow like AC
R O C
With the D P G nigga

Hold up wait a minute and
All my thugs get gangsta with it
Get what?
Gotti Jigga and Daz Dillinger, killin' ya with the pound
with Roc La Familia

Deep in and out, out gold Daytonas
D cut through with 2 way Motorolas
Nigga the Dynasty and the Pentagon motherfucker
Hollow tip, stainless Teflon motherfucker
Jigga trigger, cock-a-poppa, nigga chest rocka
With the chrome chopper, glock'll pop a nigga so quick
Saddam Niastra, y'all done stepped in the mud
And about to feel ery'thing from the flat foot

Calicos collective, have you ever seen a
Four so clean like a brand new nina
My nigga Daz
Sigel Sigel
Jigga, Memph, in bad ass Impalas
Butt naked bitches and pop collars
The popular scholar, this is the beginnin'
With the hollow tips soarin', chrome wheels spinnin'
Never have you ever seen a G like me
Rollin' with the Roc, straight D P G

Don't change the game for these hoes
Who plays the game like we supposed
That nigga Daz in the house
D P G C fo' L I F E, Roc D O double G

Don't change the game for these hoes
Who plays the game like we supposed
Young Gotti in the house
Two-shotty, quick to catch a body
So put a dick in ya mouth, ya bitch

Don't change the game for these hoes
Who plays the game like we supposed
Young Hova in the house, world wide hustler
R O C, D P G motherfuckers

B I G still talkin' through the voice of I
For Tupac they yellin' ra da da da da da
Not a Blood or a Crip but I put drugs on the strip
Put dubs on the whip, got bigger guns
Than the fuzz on my hip, cock back let it rip
Won't stop that 'til the whole clip's gone
Click, Click! Okay, let's not forget
'Cause you got a vest on all I'm aimin is Teflon

I'm psycho, like no, other motherfucker
And this rifle, right for your head motherfucker
Young Hova in da house
Everybody get down
Roc-A-Fella, Dogg Pound, nigga tell me how that sound

Cha-pow, layin' all you wack niggaz down
Blowed out chromed out, swervin' through ya town
What up? Jigga Man, my nigga Kurupt
Laid back actin' a nut, waitin' to 'rupt
No remorse as we bust, let you feel the dust
Dogg Pound, Roc-A-Fella straight fuckin' it up
Let it be known, Daz Dillinger, rough to the bone
All alone, roam ya neighborhood high

High stylin', profilin', y'all comin' after me
In actuality they fake the technicality
Dogg Pound Roc-A-Fella that's my family
On site niggaz died for they salary
We the gang and we walk like we talk
And we stalk and we do what we do after dark
Get one shot Dillinger Roc La Familia

Don't change the game for these hoes
Who plays the game like we supposed
Sigel Sigel in the house
Uh huh, sick bastard
Even mo' sicker ya brain get mo' twisted

Sigel, two Desert Eagle hit you niggaz up quick
Got 'em diggin' ditches up quick
Got you niggaz spittin' up 'cause I'm sick
Gettin' up slow from hits from the fifth
Let a row go quick from the clip

Shit, sit a nigga down quick when I'm pitchin' a bitch
You see light then you takin' a trip
Five hours, spill a clip and make the hammer dance
I'll holla, while you holla in the ambulance
Stop, it's the Roc nigga R O C
With the D O G on ya block
Fuck the C O P's, let me see those trees
No stems, no sticks, no seeds, just breathe

Relax bitch, don't act bitch, we don't stop
It's the R O C, geah who forgot
You never thought Bleek walk on a track before
Hit a switch in a black 6-4 before
Down on sunset I run sets, I does that
Niggaz look at me and be like damn I was that
I'm the Understanding with my peeps, fuck foes
Got a house in the back with a Benz and dough

Get cha mind right nigga 'fore you mention me
Your click ain't too thorough to mention we
Don't matter who we collab' with, nigga it's a classic
Dogg Pound linked with the Roc could 'cause traffic
Who want rump, get it crunk with me
I'm Bleek, you a got a gun wanna dump with me?
You catch Bleek in B.K. or down in L.A.
With my W and E up nigga, who want play?

Psycho, like no, bitch ass nigga so
When you see the R O to the C sneak creep low
I will not, lose

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The Roc (Just Fire) - Lyrics - Come Home With Me - Cam'Ron

Title: The Roc (Just Fire)
Album: Come Home With Me
Artist: Cam'Ron
Composer(s): Cameron Giles, Malik Cox, Dwight Grant, Justin Smith

Lyric:
Yeah yeah, nigga
Just blazin' this shit, ya heard?
It's ya main man I'm back niggaz holla

My break I'm fresh off it
I never change I'm stuck in these ways
Nike Airs sweats and Taurus
But I'm a do it for my enemies
They wanna end my chill wanna see what that villa be

Now what that sound like?
Plus they know what a clip get down like
Turn bags from bladders legs to wheels paint it peels
'Cuz you fuckin' wit' a nigga that'll jump out raise the steel
I live this way it's real dog no joke

Blow smoke in ya bitch face piss in ya wheels
Slap ya custies, clap your workers, dead the strip
Stick ya connect, yap ya bitch

So let it be known I'm back for my grizzly
The sergeant, the cap, the mac holds 60
For rookies and vets I'll bang 'til it click
So run and tell ya duela the ruger come wit' two clips, dog

M easy won't leave my hood need me
Pop fa' sheezy who don't believe me?
We all criminals but live like a diplomat
We get low when the dough low get it back

Here is something you can't understand
How I could just kill a man for killa cam
Me and my Roc killa fam, top billers man
We run the spot, drop ceilings fam

Hit the wall drop ceiling fans
Listen boar, man I show you how to fill a van
Up with killers man and line the trunk
Keep a stash box for the nine and the pump
The coach walk you through and he grind you up

What chu want the dope or the weed?
How you want it packaged, in the cap or the bag?
How you want me packin' wit' the mac or the mag?
Yeah that bent get back, but listen scrap act real fast

And keep a wack that'll gag ya back
Block style from ya swagger, ya swacks
It's the broad street bully bitch
I bully niggaz on the broadest streets
I house niggaz on the narrowest block

Know my rules when the barrel get hot
When the gun blows and the shots fall and the smoke clear
Man I be hearin' you murder
Nobody hit up in the cross 'cuz I'm observin'

Nobody be missin' your loss 'cuz you deserved it
South Philly niggaz kill at will, I keep my Mac-Milli chilly chill
On the really real
'Fore I make you niggaz feel this steel

Go 'head stupid niggaz go fuck wit' them chicks
I'm the third little piggy I'm a fuck wit' them pricks
Better yet the bakery I got pies and cakes
Nigga think doublin' is turnin' 5 to 8

I turn 8 to 20, 20 to 100, 100 to 1000
That to 100,000, in front a housin'
Closed 'em all down dog, no one's allowed in
I'm coppin' everything I'm done wit' browsin'

It's the top don, glock palm, dot com
Get your shit rocked ma like Haseem Rahman
And I'm extra scary
CEO's all the frontin' ain't necessary, I fuck wit' secretaries

All for information it ain't necessary
They in love like the 14th of February
Play 'em like April 1st right before I slide off
It could be March 2nd, sound like July 4th

Halloween or Memorial Day
At your memorial be one year from today
All y'all think it's peace and peachy
I leave you reesy piecy all my bitches rock

Christian Dior, BCBG
'Round phony niggaz get the heeby jeebies
Hungry hoes say "Killa feed me feed me"
Calm down ma, easy, easy

Talk greasy, please me, get my man wheezy
Still rock ellesses, to squeeze appease me
He ain't no tease but measly
Not doggy's angels killa please believe me

You now rollin' with them thugs from the R O C
Niggaz wanna despise the team Roc a fella
When the shit gets down you know who's doin' the poppin
Killa easy

Fuck those who disagree, my bullets you get 'em free
Roc a Roc a
Roc a Roc a Roc a Roc a
Roc in this muh muh muhfucka

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Z - Roc Boys - Lyrics - American Gangster - Jay

Title: Z - Roc Boys
Album: American Gangster
Artist: Jay
Composer(s): Thomas R Brenneck, Shawn C Carter, Sean Combs, Levar Coppin, Guy David, Michael Deller, David Guy, Deleno Matthews, Leon Michels, Gabriel Alexander Roth, Homer Steinweiss

Lyric:
And the winner is Hov
My man, speech

First of all I wanna thank my Connect
The most important person with all due respect
Thanks to the duffel bag, the brown paper bag
The Nike shoe box for holdin' all this cash
Boys in blue who put greed before the badge
The first pusher whoever made the stash

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Oh, what a feelin', I'm feelin' life
Thanks to the lames, niggas with bad aim
Thanks to a little change I tore you out the game

Bullet wounds will stop your buffoonery
Thanks to the pastor rappin' at your eulogy
To Lil' Kim and them, you know the women friend
Who, carry the work cross state for a gentlemen
Yeah, thanks to all the hustlers
And most importantly you, the customer

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Oh, what a feelin', I'm feelin' life
You don't even gotta bring ya paper out
We the dope boys of the year, drinks is on the house

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Look at how I'm chillin', I'm killin' this ice
You don't even gotta bring ya purses out
We the dope boys of the year, drinks is on the house

Let ya hair down baby, I just hit a score
Pick any place on the planet, pick a shore
Take what the Forbes figure, then figure more
'Cause they forgot to account what I did with the raw

Pick a time, let's pick apart some stores
Pick a weekend for freakin' for figure fours
I figure frauds never hit a lick before
So they don't know the feelin' when them things get across

Put ya hand out the window, feel the force
Feel the Porsche, hit the frost
Ice cold, jewels got no flaws
Drop got no top, you on the top floor

Pink Rosay, think OJ
I get away with murder when I sling yay
[Incomprehensible] got less steps then Britney
That means it ain't stepped on, dig me?

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Oh, what a feelin', I'm feelin' life
You don't even gotta bring ya paper out
We the dope boys of the year, drinks is on the house

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Look at how I'm chillin', I'm killin' this ice
You don't even gotta bring ya purses out
We the dope boys of the year, drinks is on the house

Red Porsche's, rare portraits
Rare guns if you dare come near the fortress
This apple sauce is from the apple orchid
This kinda talk is only reserved for the bosses

Which means I get it from the ground
Which means you get it when I'm around
Rich niggas, black bar mitzvahs
Mazel tav, it's a celebration bitches

La Heim
I wish for you a hundred years of success
But it's my time, cheers, toast to crime
Number one B-boy, chain nigga rhyme

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Oh, what a feelin', I'm feelin' life
You don't even gotta bring ya paper out
We the dope boys of the year, drinks is on the house

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Look at how I'm chillin', I'm killin' this ice
You don't even gotta bring ya purses out
We the dope boys of the year, drinks is on the house

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Oh, what a feelin', I'm feelin' life
You don't even gotta bring ya paper out
We the dope boys of the year, drinks is on the house

The Roc Boys in the buildin' tonight
Look at how I'm chillin', I'm killin' this ice
You don't even gotta bring ya purses out
We the dope boys of the year, drinks is on the house

Sweet, let that ride out, bring the horns back in, yeah
This is black super hero music right here baby, American Gangsta
Takin' flight, comin' to a town near you
Soon as I touch down I just want y'all to start playin' the horns like
Hovie's home, Lukey baby

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27b8e367301a2302044103ce45e23902

Z - Pop 4 Roc - Lyrics - Vol. 3... Life and Times of S. Carter - Jay

Title: Z - Pop 4 Roc
Album: Vol. 3... Life and Times of S. Carter
Artist: Jay
Composer(s): M Cox, Ken Ifill, Shawn Carter, Amil Whitehead, D Grant, Ernesto Shaw

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
Alright yeah
Would ya love me? Alright
Would ya hate me? Watch this yo
I know ya love me, alright
I know ya hate me, Clue
Would ya love me? Brand new Duro
Would ya hate me? I know ya love me
Feel this yo

See me comin' through hair done just a slinging my shit
With something Gucci on clinging to my hips frontin'
With the Star Tech ringing in the whip icy ears, neck
Fingers for years got the show wild with the toes out
Shit I don't fuck with no stingy nigga, I rock Prada, Chanel
And Fendi nigga, what I'ma do with your little blunts

And Henney nigga? I'ma Major Coin with a pretty Bentley
Nigga my niggas will ride for me, you should see all the things
They buy for me, it's obvious how I spend my time around ballers
All day don't have to spend a dime, callin' up room service when
It's dinner time get my tan on in the tropics in the winter time nigga

Would ya love me? If we couldn't cop the drop
Would ya hate me? If we couldn't drop the top
I know ya love me 'cuz you know we pop 4 Roc
I know ya hate me 'cuz you know we got shit locked

Would ya love me? If we couldn't cop the drop
Would ya hate me? If we couldn't drop the top
I know ya love me 'cuz you know we pop 4 Roc
I know ya hate me and you know we got shit locked

We gon' stop this here get this clear the general of the Roc in here
Beanie Siegal hottest thing on the block this year, keep the ego
We been bound to the top ya hear forget about it you don't know me
Yo stop the stares I've been about it pop you then pop ya peers
You know how I do six coup, top be clear, you know how
I play low layer Roc-A-Wear catch Siegal in the kitchen balloon
In the pie, y'all from whom to buy, y'all niggas know if y'all cross

Mac y'all soon to die 'cuz you know I bring heat like June and July
Spit like August I'm the truth I'm not lying I'm the reason why Jay
Feel comfortable retiring I gotta laugh 'cuz y'all work hard at this shit
Think about yo I just started this shit, just imagine if I put my heart
In this shit scary sight y'all niggas feel me right God damn yo
I barely write but every rhyme be in check like a pair of Nike's

Would ya love me? If we couldn't cop the drop
Would ya hate me? If we couldn't drop the top
I know ya love me 'cuz you know we pop 4 Roc
I know ya hate me 'cuz you know we got shit locked

Would ya love me? If we couldn't cop the drop
Would ya hate me? If we couldn't drop the top
I know ya love me 'cuz you know we pop 4 Roc
I know ya hate me and you know we got shit locked

Yo, yo, well I'm gold now, Memph Man coming of age
And I'm grown now sittin' on chrome now, I'm the youngest gun
I get it on with anyone, I've been in thirty beefs shit I'm barely 21
Guns I hold 'em like offensive linemen, bring 'em back to the streets
Like a brick on consignment interlining of the Mark Buchanan
Spark two hammers Memph Man gold marks the understanding

We don't engage in war we elope orange juice style
Beat niggas to a pulp we broke nigga you just told
3 jokes me, Biggs, and Dame we get some things
See the six dames me and Biggs live in the Range
Mines platinum his Champagne, niggas whisper 'cuz
If they talk they gets slain, y'all's was looking for me

On the charts the bricks came, left the same night
In the morning the chicks came I just use rap to put
Shit in my name the death's just a matter of time the
Hit's been arranged contracts signed the shits in your
Name, just to lame rap niggas I'm the king mother fuck
The ring mami kiss the chain I don't got game to waste on y'all

I'm don't think with my dick or chase my balls I'm a hustla
Hit me with an eighth of raw and when I get on top
I'ma blaze all y'all keep 'em laced some more I know you
Want some things I drink a lot of water mami come clean
Chicks I pump her then dump her cars we got 'em bumper
To bumper rap niggas y'all days are numbered, nobody
Drop nothin' next summer, yeah

Would ya love me? If we couldn't cop the drop
Would ya hate me? If we couldn't drop the top
I know ya love me 'cuz you know we pop 4 Roc
I know ya hate me 'cuz you know we got shit locked

Would ya love me? If we couldn't cop the drop
Would ya hate me? If we couldn't drop the top
I know ya love me 'cuz you know we pop 4 Roc
I know ya hate me and you know we got shit locked

Yeah R-O-C for the 2 triple O, you heard me
You are about to witness a dynasty like no other
Beanie Siegal, The General Amil-lion, Diana Ross of the ROC
Memph Bleek, Young God
Jigga Man, get your mind right niggas

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Roc-A-Fella Get Low Respect It - Lyrics - M.A.D.E. - Memphis Bleek

Title: Roc-A-Fella Get Low Respect It
Album: M.A.D.E.
Artist: Memphis Bleek
Composer(s): Curtis Mayfield, E Matlock, Malik Cox

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
Okay, I'm reloaded, yeah, y'know
It's Young E, Get Low in the bulding, we back
M.A.D.E., everybody ready? It's that new shit ya hear
Yo, Guru, let's do it for these niggas, yeah

Ayo, Roc-A-Fella Records runnin' the streets reckless
Get Low, the future, you gotta respect it

The hood's still in back of me, guns still beside of me
Still for the street, hoes, they wanna ride wit me
Big print, like I just hit lottery
Like y'all can't see a nigga straight from poverty

We ghetto, we're gutter, where you don't come around
Some dudes make records an' say they underground
But I choose not to go that far 'cuz I was born there, pa
I don't gotta write bars, you niggaz see my scars?

An' you know my story
I'm more for the war, I'm 'bout guts an' glory
Them other dudes front for y'all, I can't do it
I don't gotta sell my soul to sell music

I put the beat on, Murder'll roll the weed up
Put it on the street one week, watch it heat up
Heavy rotation, rockin' on Hot 9
You niggaz get your money right 'cuz I got mine

An' it's Roc-A-Fella Records runnin' the streets reckless
Get Low, the future, you gotta respect it

I been in it since 9 to 6 before I could drive whips
To focus on gettin' paid, before 'Coming of age'
Niggaz, they understand the boy done became a man
Loyal to all my peeps, that's why I did for the fam

Who the fuck, want what? None of you niggaz
I'm right back 'cuz I ain't done wit the bidniss
Them niggaz owe me a check, niggaz owe me respect
I give you that good game I told you I been M.A.D.E.

An' it's Roc-A-Fella Records runnin' the streets reckless
Get Low, the future, you gotta respect it

An' I'm from the M to the A to the R C Y
So many niggaz be hatin', they don't want me to ride
But, you see Bleek just livin' his life
Instead you wanna see a nigga throwin' that iron

Well, so be it, it's many dudes in the team
That ain't family now an' y'all see it
Dynasty though, it remain the same
So every time you throw it up
You know who changed the game, homie

The ROC army, Get Low an' State Property
Caked up in real estate an' never played Monopoly
But why them niggaz wanna act all aggy?
'Cuz of the bigger plate an' I got more baggies?

But shit where's the love?
I could tell you it ain't nuttin' over here but new guns an' slugs
An' it's all about the butter, you ain't listenin', baby, boy?
That the ROC'll never lose, we just kill an' destroy

An' it's Roc-A-Fella Records runnin' the streets reckless
Get Low, the future, you gotta respect it

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80494d9f13b082aec1487ed9f12b470b

Z - Jigga That N**** - Lyrics - Unplugged - Jay

Title: Z - Jigga That N****
Album: Unplugged
Artist: Jay
Composer(s): Shawn C Carter, Jean Claude Olivier, Samuel J Barnes, Larry Gates

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
[Foreign content]
(Roc-A-Fella y'all)
It's the Roc
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
R O, R O C, niggaz, R O
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
R O C, niggaz, R O, whoo
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
R O C, niggaz
(Jay-Z)

Come on the track duh, duh, da, da
With a throwback jersey and a fitted
Might blow a bag of Hershey in the sidd-ix
Or might take sips of army with a chidd-ick

I'm so sick widdit, lampin' in the Hamptons, the weekends man
The Stan Smith Adidas and the Campers
Or playin' guts on the cruise, Hermes bow shoes
The Izod bucket on I'm so old school

Yellow wrist watch, Gucci flip flops
Six top model chicks, who is this hot?
J A, ladies help me say it now
Y Z, mammy, why you playin' with me?

Ride with me, get high as me
It's how it's supposed to be, when you rollin' with G's
Back up in this bitch like whoa
Jigga get this whole bitch jumpin' like six-fo's

V is I, and I am him
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
Slim with the tilted brim on twenty inch rims
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all got love for me I got love for y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all go to war for me I go to war wit y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)

Hov' and so I breeze through, jeans is Evisu
She's respondin', top of C. Bronson
We in Luan gettin' our groove on
Buyin' out the bar, on our way to Spa'

She never seen a hundred on the wrist before
Never seen twenty-two's on the 6 before
I am, killin' 'em out there, they needin' first aid
'Cause the boy got more 6's than first grade

The crib got, killer views and square feet
You have to film MTV Cribs for a week
So, sleep if you need to, mammy, I will leave you
Right where you stand, nah, I don't wanna dance
(I'm good)

I just wanna see what's in your Frankie B pants
Waist is low enough to let your waist show
Top like a rock star, I got a fast car
We can cruise the city, doin' a buck-sixty

V is I, and I am him
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
Slim with the tilted brim on twenty inch rims
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all got love for me I got love for y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all go to war for me I go to war wit y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)

"He did it again", Haters no like
But they gotta fuck with it 'cause the flow's so tight
Gnarly dude, I puff Bob Marley dude
All day, like Rastafari's do

Now I'm stuck to the point I could hardly move
You fuckin' up my high, don't bother me dude
But Red Rover, send your hoes over
She can do whatever, sip somethin' with soda

She can leave whatever, sip somethin' with Hova
We can play however, slay bed or sofa
And the prognosis, sex is explosive
Left her with wet bedsheets, nigga I'm focused

V is I, and I am him
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
Slim with the tilted brim on twenty inch rims
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all got love for me I got love for y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all go to war for me I go to war wit y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)

R O, R O C, niggaz
R O C, niggaz
(Roc-A-Fella, y'all)

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9f4e3c285257d464cf49c09e2cb6fb54

Z - Nigga What, Nigga Who - Lyrics - Vol. 2... Hard Knock Life - Jay

Title: Z - Nigga What, Nigga Who
Album: Vol. 2... Hard Knock Life
Artist: Jay
Composer(s): Tim Mosley, Shawn Carter, Jonathan Burks

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
Uh huh, uh huh, gi-gi gi-geyeah
Roc-A-Fella y'all, uh huh, uh huh, Jigga
Timbaland shit, nine-eight beyotch
Say what, say what?
Uh huh, uh huh, follow me beyotch

(Nigga what, nigga who?)
Can't fuck with me
(Nigga what, nigga who?)
They ain't ready yet

Till switcha flow, getcha dough
Can't fuck with this Roc-A-Fella shit doe
(Uh huh, uh huh)
Switcha flow, getcha dough
Can't fuck with this Roc-A-Fella shit doe
(Yeah, yeah)

Motherfuckers wanna act loco
Hit 'em wit, numerous shots with the fo'-fo'
Faggots wanna talk to Po-Po's, smoke em like cocoa
Fuck rap, coke by the boatload

Fuck dat, on the run-by, gun high, one eye closed
Left holes through some guy clothes
Stop your bullshittin', glock with the full clip
Motherfuckers better duck when the fool spit

One shot could make a nigga do a full flip
See the nigga layin' shocked when the bullet hit
Oh hey ma, how you, know niggaz wanna buy you
But see me I wanna fuck for free like Akinyele

Now I gotta let her take this ride, make you feel it
Inside your belly, if it's tight get the K-Y Jelly
All night get you wide up inside the telly
Side to side, till you say Jay-Z you're too much for me

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize gril, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize girl, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize girl, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch, Jay to the motherfuckin' Z

Got a condo with nuttin but condoms in it
The same place where the rhymes is invented
So all I do is rap and sex, imagine how I stroke
See how I was flowin' on my last cassette?

Rapid-fire like I'm blastin' a Tec, never jam though
Never get high, never run out of ammo
Niggaz hatin' an' shit 'cause I slayed your bitch
You know your favorite, I know it made you sick

And now you're, actin' raw but you never had war
Don't know how to carry your hoe, wanna marry your hoe
Now she's mad at me, 'cause Your Majesty
Just happened to be a pimp with a tragedy

She wanted, us to end, 'cause I fucked with friends
She gave me one more chance and I fucked her again
I seen her tears as she busted in, I said, "Shit
There's a draft, shut the door bitch and come on in!"

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize girl, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch

Gotta vendetta even though I been better
Left him in the cold with a thin sweater
Rap niggaz on Prozac get the bozack, niggaz threw
Two at me I threw fo' back, hold that

Let the dough stack, way before Big had the gold Ac'
Dame had the Lex black
Motherfuckers wanna test that, stress that
And right where you're stressed, where you rest at

I suggest that, niggaz invest, in a vest, when I come through
With the glock jet black, you niggaz step back
I'm the best at, you know I ain't no apprentice to this
Me and my niggaz we invented the shit

I came into the business with this
The Originator, non greater Jaz-O finish this shit
Better learn, Jaz'll relax that, ever heard of me?
Worldwide Originator, say word to me

The population holla certainly, I burn a nigga
Like a third degree, see me shine so bright
Nigga I'm my light, runnin' rulin' with rigor and vigor
Nobody bigger than me and my nigga Jigga

You fly-by-nights stop chirpin' B
Heavyweights type work to me
For the time, in this motherfucker ain't nobody hurtin' me
What? Cut your face in like surgery

Who the fuck got a VS, fuckin' BM's on the road
When you had to be in bed at the PM
Need the info, Jaz on the C.N.N
Forever touchin' my workers beginnin' you're endin'

Nigga your style's no style my style's hostile
C'mon, faggot nigga down to take the gun home
The Originator
Can't fuck with it can ya?

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch, Jay to the Z

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize bitch

(Nigga what?)
Make you think you can fuck with me
(Nigga who?)
Recognize beyotch

Switcha flow, getcha dough
Can't fuck with this Roc-A-Fella shit doe
Switcha flow, getcha dough
Can't fuck with this Roc-A-Fella shit doe

Till switcha flow, getcha dough
Can't fuck with this Roc-A-Fella shit doe
Switcha flow, getcha dough
Can't fuck with this Roc-A-Fella shit doe

Till switcha flow, getcha dough
Can't fuck with this Roc-A-Fella shit doe
Switcha flow, getcha dough
Can't fuck with this Roc-A-Fella shit doe

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447db9b6c635486901ca3c553e374772

Z - Change The Game - Lyrics - The Dynasty: Roc La Familia 2000 - Jay

Title: Z - Change The Game
Album: The Dynasty: Roc La Familia 2000
Artist: Jay
Composer(s): Steven Garrett, Ricardo Thomas, Shawn Carter, Dwight Grant

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
Let's go, bounce, bounce, bounce
Shit relax your mind, let your conscience be free
You're now rollin' with them thugs from the R-O-C
Sigel, Sigel in the house
Sick bastard, get your wig pushed back by the wig push-backer
Memph Bleek in the house
Still here, never left, still bust, more or less, still puff, bitch
Young Hova in the house, Jigga! Yeah
Crist' sipper, six dipper, wrist glitter nigga

Hold up love
Every time you see Jigga man I'm rollin' on dubs
Don't forget about them blades shit choppin' it up
It's the motherfuckin' Roc bitch, who hotter than us?
Jay-Hov, 'bout to change my name to Jay Peso
But in the meantime, call me William H. though
On the platinum Yamaha, got the engine gunnin'
Throwin' it up like liquor on an empty stomach

Y'all don't hear nuttin'? Who that, mac?
Nah dawg, that's M. Bleek comin'
Who the fluck, want, what?
Catch Bleek in south beach out of the reach of the police
Gat on my lap, yeah, bitch on my back, holla
Yak in my pocket, smokin' the sticky chocolate
Holla if you want drama with
The dynasty, Amil, Bleek, Jigga and

Sigel, Desert Eagle dawg, who else but me?
Roc ears, Roc-wears, bandannas and white tees
Me without a gun dawg, unlikely
You know I keep the heat right under the wifebeat'
Three-X-T, I'm Lincoln now, you can't see the pound
Got a little gut so gat sit tucked, fuck
I run wild, gun high, L.A style
Bang the roscoe to the sunrise, plus I stay dumb high

Whether block shit or rock shit
Club shit or drug shit, I pop shit I got shit
Get sig' any track I'm a spit the talk to it
Down south gon' bounce Crips gon' walk to it
Get a ounce, get a woods, everybody spark to it
Every dawg, every blood in the hood, bark to it
Get the ounce, get the woods, everybody spark to it
We can smoke in here, put the choke in the air

Don't change the game for these hoes
Who plays the game like we supposed? Sigel Sigel in the house
Sick bastard, get your wig pushed back by the wig push-backer
Don't change the game for these hoes
Who plays the game like we supposed? Memph Bleek in the house
Still here, never left still bust, more or less, still puff, bitch
Don't change the game for these hoes
Who plays the game like we supposed? Young hova in the house
Jigga, Crist' sipper, six dipper, wrist glitter nigga

I wear more bling to The Source and Soul Train's
More chains than rings, niggaz won't do a thing
I bangs the four-four in plain, daylight I'm deranged
Spray right at your brain, by the way this is Hov'
One shot Dillinger, one shot killin' ya
It's only one Roc La Familia
Sigel lock Philly up, Brooklyn is me
Matter of fact, the east coast fuck took it from me

Fourth album still Jay still spittin' that real shit
Volume 3 still sold more records than Will Smith
Can't call this a comeback, I run rap, the fuck is y'all sayin'?
Five million I done that, and I come back, to do it again
Ex-sinner, Grammy award winner
Ballin' repeatedly, highlights on Sportscenter
Please repeat after me, there's only one rule
I will not, lose

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167b345a59adef6bf098201f0874202e

Do My - Lyrics - The Understanding - Memphis Bleek

Title: Do My
Album: The Understanding
Artist: Memphis Bleek
Composer(s): Shawn Carter, Malik Cox, Patrick Lawrence

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
Turn that motherfucker louder
It's the Roc in this motherfucker, biotch
Oh yeah, bounce, uh uh, bounce
Yeah, yeah bounce, come on
Oh come, on bounce, come on

Do my ladies run this motherfucker?
Yeah, yeah, come on
Or do my thugs run this motherfucker?
Yeah, yeah, come on

Do my ladies run it fat asses and flat stomachs
Throw a hand in the air if it's the year of the woman
Or my dogs run it, let 'em know that you're still gunnin'
Throw a drink in the air let 'em know you still thuggin'

Yo I come through, few of my man's
Scoop you and your friends
You, you, and you with the Timbs
In tight jeans, Chinese eyes

Indian hair, Black girl ass
Let me pour you a glass of Belvi
Tell me all about your past
Let me console your soul while I palm your ass

And your man did what? He ain't give you?
He cheated with her, I can't diss duke
I tell you this though get with this dude
I'll teach you about dough and show you what this do

It's a secret society, all we ask is trust but I don't freeze bitches
Just skeeze bitches break up happy homes
Just seize misses you'll never get her back once you get a yacht
How you love that? How you love that?

Do my ladies run this motherfucker?
Yeah, yeah, come on
Or do my thugs run this motherfucker?
Yeah, yeah, come on

Do my ladies run it fat asses and flat stomachs
Throw a hand in the air if it's the year of the woman
Or my dogs run it, let 'em know that you're still gunnin'
Throw a drink in the air let 'em know you still thuggin'

Ay, yo back woods rollin', rap you can't hold 'em
ROC gear matchin' crews Bleek is chillin', Murda is chillin'
What more can I say? We still killin' 'em
Bags we still dealin' 'em, four wheels, we wheelin' them

Chicks like I'm feelin' him, yeah ma okay
Black jeans and Timberlands, give them adrenaline rush
Ladies know the difference between them niggas and us
We the R-O-C and we don't stop
They don't make a gun that we don't pop

Matter fact they don't make a car that we don't drop
Thought you knew they don't make jewels that we don't cop
What you knew? You actin' like the ROC ain't hot
Or the car that I cop ain't missin' a top

And even if they don't make drops that kind
I tear da roof off like I'm Busta Rhymes motherfucker

Do my ladies run this motherfucker?
Yeah, yeah, come on
Or do my thugs run this motherfucker?
Yeah, yeah, yeah come on

Do my ladies run it fat asses and flat stomachs
Throw a hand in the air if it's the year of the woman
Or my dogs run it, let 'em know that you're still gunnin'
Throw a drink in the air let 'em know you still thuggin'

Do my ladies run this motherfucker?
Okay
Or do my thugs run this motherfucker?
Uh-huh, okay, uh-huh
Come on, come on

It's the R O C, we don't stop
R O C, we don't stop
R O C, we don't stop
Uh Memp Bleek, the understanding niggas
Get your mind right, ha ha

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46e07c7888ac44d60429060ec39ae8b5

Z - Jigga That Nigga - Lyrics - The Blueprint - Jay

Title: Z - Jigga That Nigga
Album: The Blueprint
Artist: Jay
Composer(s): Shawn C Carter, Jean Claude Olivier, Samuel J Barnes, Larry Gates

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
It's the Roc
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
R.O., R.O.C. niggaz, R.O.
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
Hov', R.O.C. niggaz, R.O., whoo
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
It's Hov', R.O.C. niggaz
(Jay-Z)

Come on the track duh duh da-da
With a throwback jersey and a fitted
Might blow a bag of Hershey in the sidd-ix
Or might take sips of army with a chidd-ick, I'm so sick widdit
Lampin' in the Hamptons, the weekends man
The stance meant for Adidas and the campus
Or playin' guts on the cruise, her made bow shoes
The Azar bucket on I'm so old school

Yellow wrist watch, Gucci flip flops
Six top model chicks, who is this hot?
J-A, ladies help me say it now
Y-Z, mami why you playin' with me?
Ride with me, get high as me
It's how it's supposed to be, when you rollin with G's, Hov'
Back up in this bitch like whoa
Jigga get this whole bitch jumpin' like six-fo's

(Hov')
V is I, and I am him
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
Slim with the tilted brim on twenty inch rims
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all got love for me I got love for y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all go to war for me I go to war wit y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)

Hov', and so I breeze through jeans and see me through
She's respondin', top of C. Bronson
We in Luan gettin' our groove on
Buyin' out the bar, on our way to Spa'
She never seen a hundred on the wrist before
Never seen twenty-two's on the 6 before
I am, killin' 'em out there, they needin' first aid
'Cause the boy got more 6's than first grade

The crib got, killer views and square feet
You have to film MTV Cribs for a week
So, sleep if you need to, mami I will leave you
Right where you stand, nah I don't wanna dance
(I'm good)
I just wanna see what's in your Frankie V pants
Waist is low enough to let your waist show
Top like a rock star, I got a fast car
We can cruise the city, doin' a buck-sixty

(Hov')
V is I, and I am him
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
Slim with the tilted brim on twenty inch rims
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all got love for me I got love for y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all go to war for me I go to war wit y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)

"He did it again", haters no like
But they gotta fuck with it 'cause the flow's so tight
Gnarly dude, I puff Bob Marley dude
All day, like Rastafari's do
Now I'm stuck to the point I could hardly move
You fuckin' up my high, don't bother me dude
But Red Rover, send your hoes over
She can do whatever, sip somethin' with soda
She can leave whatever, sip somethin' with Hova
We can play however, slay bed or sofa
And the prognosis, sex is explosive
Left her with wet bedsheets, nigga I'm focused

(Hov')
V is I, and I am him
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
Slim with the tilted brim on twenty inch rims
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all got love for me I got love for y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)
And if y'all go to war for me I go to war wit y'all
(Jigga, Jigga, that nigga Jigga)

R.., R.O.C niggaz
R.O.C. niggaz
(Roc-A-Fella y'all)

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5901fe3b6c54618fdbb1338dbaa23711

Don'T Cross The Line - Lyrics - Freeway

Title: Don'T Cross The Line
Artist: Freeway
Composer(s): Vinny Barrett, Faith Renee Evans, Leslie Pridgen, B Eli, Justin Smith

Lyric:
The name F R double the E
The gat hack are end where the cops'll clip
Back, flip, hands spring semi your V
You callin' all an' run to the cops

Don't make me wet, y'all
With what's under the T-shirt
The heat hurt, blew off ya front porch, your backyard
Ya'll niggaz like dicks, pause
Thick jaws, act hard, so they keep squirtin'

I move work often
Like when New York couldn't beat Boston
Controllin' the nets, I float on ya block
Hop out, post up, move rocks often
Shut the shot down, pass it to Chris

If your boss got twelve on the neck, ten in the arm
An' my gat at the end of my arms
Hittin' the clip prick
Flippin' ya vet, causin' you harm, nigga
Ya'll need a place of respect, we runnin' shit

The name, F R double the E, tell 'em
Don't really wanna cross the line
An' I don't wanna have to tell ya twice
An' Trick, R O C bring trouble your way

W A to the Y, tell 'em
Means that don't show love
Freeway gets no love
Trick, R O C bring trouble this parts

F R E, bubble the ride an' in all
Came from takin' the trip, stuffin' the ride, yea
I'ma ride it on every of your ride
Caught in every broad or market
Park it, hop out in deer crew

The heat is on perfect, tuckin' the linin'
I'm fine an' trynna get some tickets for slidin'
Freeway's in full effect
An' all these bitches want some millions
Just to hear my rhyme

An' I don't gotta boss 'em to give nectar
The boy get check-ups, I get neck, when I don't ask
When mami's with the ax, make my baby momma ask
Look, that's the crime

An' I don't wanna force y'all to give checks, uh
Without tax, Freeway shoot ya from ya head to ya toe
From ya toes to ya neck
That's what the boy brought, extra large

The name, F R double the E, tell 'em
Don't really wanna cross the line
An' I don't wanna have to tell ya twice
An' Trick, R O C bring trouble your way

W A to the Y, tell 'em
Means that don't show love
Freeway gets no love
Trick, R O C bring trouble this parts

Freeway bring trouble to soloists
The sawed off split, get the fuck outta dodge
Know this, I came from nothin'
So ain't nothin' for my gauge to duck
You punks, get outta line

An' I cock back, bloody ya tee
Pull ya top back, drive through at McDonald's
In front of Ronald, put ya brains on ya Big Mac
Make sure the bitch don't leave

I got a gat an' a clip in each sleeve
With boxers, so my dick can breathe
Breeze through in the '89
Dealt with my boys, with my whistle on freeze
That's how you know I got the block on smash

Act up, I put your stripper on freeze
Me an' Sieg', like Snoop an' Daz
Because tricks that fuck, couldn't give me the ass
An' they roll up, light up, pass me the trees, come on

The name, F R double the E, tell 'em
Don't really wanna cross the line
An' I don't wanna have to tell ya twice
An' Trick, R O C bring trouble your way

W A to the Y, tell 'em
Means that don't show love
Freeway gets no love
Trick, R O C bring trouble this parts

It's Freeway and done away and we doin' it [Incomprehensible]
Holla, yeah, it's the rep

F R double the E, tell 'em
Cross the line, flip ya V?
Ya lost you mind? Don't fuck with Free
Trick, R O C bring trouble your way, holla

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d2817604273ac64b74d783c2ecb567ca

Hustlers - Lyrics - The Understanding - Memphis Bleek

Title: Hustlers
Album: The Understanding
Artist: Memphis Bleek
Composer(s): Jose Batiz, Malik Cox, Dwight Grant, Erickson Bryan

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Lyric:
Yeah
Sup wit' these lame ass niggas, man?
I'm tellin' you
Niggas keep runnin' to this rap shit, you kna' mean?
Like y'all built like that
Y'all niggas betta pick up a basketball, or somethin'
Y'all niggas ain't ready for this shit

If a nigga know the Memph I ain't the type to front
I'll put any gun to you what type you want?
Supply any drug for you what high you want?
Bag any chick for you nicer slut

Yeah, I push hot fees my niggas got cheese
You run around frontin' like you niggas got keys
You never flipped burgers your krew, I ain't heard of
Matter of fact, I'll murder ya

I heard you niggas spit shit but it's indirect
Say my name and see where I end this tech
I got a lot of love for this but dawg, I'm real
When it's beef, it's beef when it's rap, it's real

Nuttin' between a lot of frontin' I seen
I done analyzed this game it's nuttin' but schemes
New ways to sell records I aim for it
Put it out if it's hot, not, just ignore it

We them hustlers and that's who y'all know
We get low, get dough flip gold for sho'
We them gangstas that's who we be
We got cheese pop three for R O C

We them hustlers and that's who y'all know
We get low, get dough flip gold for sho'
We them gangstas that's who we be
We got cheese pop three for R O C

Yo, yo this is my ghetto I eat, sleep, breathe here
To tell the truth, dawg none of us gon' leave here
We die young, go to jail for murder 1
On a come-up, nigga and that's where I'm from

I done learned from that Puff and that Lopez shit
I ain't runnin' in no club on some loco shit
I'ma catch you when you sit put 4 in yo whip
Catch your girl in the club put nut in your bitch

Niggas wanna see the Memph go and lose his cool
Go and use his tool, nigga, use the fool
You could bootleg my shit I want me a chunk
Deuce I'm not a chump, I'll leave you slumped in the trunk

What part of that you don't understand, or ain't hear?
Misinterpurate, dawg, I put work in
I got a name, and my shit sound phenomenol
Still keep them thangs next to the abdomenol

We them hustlers and that's who y'all know
We get low, get dough flip gold for sho'
We them gangstas that's who we be
We got cheese pop three for R O C

We them hustlers and that's who y'all know
We get low, get dough flip gold for sho'
We them gangstas that's who we be
We got cheese pop three for R O C

Uh, uh, uh yeah before these rhymes
I was bustin' these nines before these raps
I was bustin' my gat before the vocal groups
I spoke with the truth
Why do catz wanna muffle my speech?
Imagine my raps if I wasn't in touch with the street

On the block, deep wit my peeps touchin' the heat
I'm used to crack, now i'm slingin' raps huster wit beats
You niggas is lame you catz can't touch what I reach
And quiet as kept you niggas can't hush what I speech

My story's too deep life real, clear as the streets
See my iced grill, hear my voice clear when you sleep
You niggas know me the cat who be tearin' these streets
Ain't nothin' changed but my name when I appeared on these beats
It's Bien Mac

Sigel was the name that they gave me
The streets that is I'm tryin' to teach that, kids
'Cause some niggas don't know that they be clowns
Ay yo, the sun don't go down we go 'round

We them hustlers and that's who y'all know
We get low, get dough flip gold for sho'
We them gangstas that's who we be
We got cheese pop three for R O C

We them hustlers and that's who y'all know
We get low, get dough flip gold for sho'
We them gangstas that's who we be
We got cheese pop three for R O C

We them hustlers and that's who y'all know
We get low, get dough flip gold for sho'
We them gangstas that's who we be
We got cheese pop three for R O C

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e99a2e79fc2dd11832609145509a0367

Z - Takeover - Lyrics - The Blueprint - Jay

Title: Z - Takeover
Album: The Blueprint
Artist: Jay
Composer(s): Robbie Krieger, Lawrence Parker, John Densmore, E. Burdon, Shawn Carter, A. Lomax, Jim Morrison, B. Chandler, Ray Manzarek, Kanye West, Rodney Lemay

{AdsenseCode:2D080010-7055-443A-8D12-2B79DDC71256}

Lyric:
R.O.C, we runnin' this rap shit
Memphis Bleek, we runnin' this rap shit
B. Mac, we runnin' this rap shit
Freeway, we run this rap shit
O and Sparks, we runnin' this rap shit
Chris and Neef, we runnin' this rap shit

The takeover, the break's over nigga
God MC, me, Jay-Hova
Hey lil' soldier you ain't ready for war
R.O.C too strong for y'all
It's like bringin' a knife to a gunfight, pen to a test
Your chest in the line of fire with ya thin ass vest
You bringin' them Boyz II Men, how them boys gon' win?
This is grown man B.I., get you rolled in the triage

Beatch, your reach ain't long enough, dunny
Your peeps ain't strong enough, fucker
Roc-A-Fella is the army, better yet the navy
Niggaz'll kidnap your babies, spit at your lady
We bring knife to fistfight, kill your drama
Uh, we kill you motherfuckin' ants with a sledgehammer
Don't let me do it to you dunny 'cause I overdo it
So you won't confuse it with just rap music

R.O.C., we runnin' this rap shit
M-Easy, we runnin' this rap shit
The Broad Street Bully, we runnin' this rap shit
Get zipped up in plastic when it happens that's it
Freeway, we runnin' this rap shit
O and Sparks, we runnin' this rap shit
Chris and Neef, we runnin' this rap shit
"Watch out! We run New York"

I don't care if you Mobb Deep, I hold triggers to crews
You little fuck, I've got money stacks bigger than you
When I was pushin' weight, back in eighty-eight
You was a ballerina, I got your pictures I seen ya
Then you dropped "Shook Ones," switch your demeanor
Well, we don't believe you, you need more people
Roc-A-Fella, students of the game, we passed the classes
'Cause nobody could read you dudes like we do

Don't let 'em gas you like Jigga is ass and won't clap you
Trust me on this one, I'll detach you
Mind from spirit, body from soul
They'll have to hold a mass, put your body in a hole
No, you're not on my level get your brakes tweaked
I sold what ya whole album sold in my first week
You guys don't want it with Hov'
Ask Nas, he don't want it with Hov', no!

R.O.C., we runnin' this rap shit
B. Sigel, we runnin' this rap shit
M-Easy, we runnin' this rap shit
Get zipped up in plastic when it happens that's it
O and Sparks, we runnin' this rap shit
Freeway, we runnin' this rap shit
Chris and Neef, we runnin' this rap shit
Watch out! We run New York"

I know you missin' all the fame
But along with celebrity comes 'bout
Seventy shots to your brain, nigga, you are lame
Youse the fag model for Karl Kani-Esco ads
Went from, Nasty Nas to Esco's trash
Had a spark when you started but now you're just garbage
Fell from top ten to not mentioned at all

To your bodyguard's "Oochie Wally" verse better than yours
Matter fact you had the worst flow on the whole fuckin' song
But I know, the sun don't shine, then son don't shine
That's why your lame
Career come to an end, there's only so long fake thugs can pretend
Nigga, you ain't live it you witnessed it from your folks pad
You scribbled in your notepad and created your life

I showed you your first tec on tour with Large Professor
Then I heard your album bout your tec on your dresser
So yeah I sampled your voice, you was usin' it wrong
You made it a hot line, I made it a hot song
And you ain't get a corn nigga you was gettin' fucked then
I know who I paid God, Serchlite Publishing
Use your brain, you said you been in this ten
I've been in it five, smarten up Nas
Four albums in ten years nigga? I could divide

That's one every let's say two, two of them shits was due
One was nah, the other was "Illmatic"
That's a one hot album every ten year average
And that's so lame, nigga switch up your flow
Your shit is garbage, but you try and kick knowledge?
You niggaz gon' learn to respect the king
Don't be the next contestant on that Summer Jam screen
Because you know who, did you know what? With you know who
But just keep that between me and you for now

R.O.C, we runnin' this rap shit
M-Easy, we runnin' this rap shit
The Broad Street Bully, we runnin' this rap shit
Get zipped up in plastic when it happens that's it
Freeway, we runnin' this rap shit
O and Sparks, we runnin' this rap shit
Chris and Neef, we runnin' this rap shit
Watch out! We run New York"

A wise man told me don't argue with fools
'Cause people from a distance can't tell who is who
So stop with that childish shit, nigga I'm grown
Please leave it alone, don't throw rocks at the throne
Do not bark up that tree, that tree will fall on you
I don't know why your advisers ain't forewarn you
Please, not Jay, he's, not for play
I don't slack a minute, all that thug rappin' and gimmicks

I will end it, all that yappin' be finished
You are not deep, you made your bed now sleep
Don't make me expose to them folks that don't know you
Nigga I know you well, all the stolen jewels
Twinkletoes you breakin' my heart
You can't fuck with me, go play somewhere, I'm busy
And all you other cats throwin' shots at Jigga
You only get half a bar, fuck y'all niggaz

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