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(feat. Ras Kass) |
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[Yogi] Yeah...HA...Cru... |
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[Mighty Ha] Mic checka da one, the mic check three |
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[Yogi] Cru in you baby... |
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[Mighty Ha] Mic checka da one, the mic check three... |
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[Yogi] |
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Mix it up with the big Y.O. |
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Comin' from the Laf Isle with fat funk flow |
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So yo how you feelin'? Tell me how you feelin' |
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Mad drug dealin', mad caps peelin' |
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I do my thing, drink a Budweiser |
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And I seen more *bush/Busch* than Dan Anheiser |
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Twist the caps of you fake John Gottis |
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Watch the pump shottie, make you look like Kwame |
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Cru's about to drop the dirty understand the cipher |
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Got nothin' to lose so I'm-a do like a lifer |
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Niggaz couldn't *catch up/ketchup* with the mustard, disgusted |
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Drop the shit that gotcha brains dusted, bust it |
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This is how it flow in the Bronx Zoo ya'll |
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Beef up a step and style with a fall |
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Nothin' but the rough, understood? |
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Got me in double extra large bulletproof wit' the hood |
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Sittin' at the bar sippin' Becks |
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Plus I got the "two turntables and a microphooooone" on deck |
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So who's next? Rugged Ras |
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Flossin' ice, and drop that soul on dat ass |
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The IBF got my rhymes ranked cuz they hittin' |
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Plus I'm all around like Scott Pippen |
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Here it is, east west, I mean China to Mexico |
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If you love the way it's goin' down let me know |
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Fuck it, Harlem knows the ledge |
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All my Bronx niggaz know the wedge, full-fledged |
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Uptown! Plus we got the Cali love |
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Y.O.G., truly yours the Breakfast Club |
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[Ras Kass] |
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Yo punk... |
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I was hot as 97 in '73 |
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D.O.B. my pedigree multiple felonies see |
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You spit phlegm I spit fumes |
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Across the ruins of kiosks hoverin' sand dunes |
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A miniature man-nume, it's National Lampoon's Alien Vacation |
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I'm abductin' muthafuckin' rappers to my inner space station |
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(What?) For sheezy, |
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When Ras Kass get to swervin' off 'gnac, believe me |
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I hit below the belt |
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Bustin' niggaz balls like Riddick Bowe versus Gulotta |
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Hell yeah I'm a rida |
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Ain't nuttin' sweetie, cancer causin' like saccahrin |
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Action, intoxicated chinky-eyed black men |
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An' nowadays fools forget what they actually named |
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Besides a loyal cadets and priceless briquettes |
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Basically, I don't give a shit how rich ya get |
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I'll have you in the car talkin' to yourself |
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Like Alanis Morisette with turets |
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(Oh wee..that's right...) I like sisters with vaginas so... |
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(Can we get freaky toniiiiight...) |
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Donald Trump wouldn't let you shine his shoes my man |
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If you pissed off you dyin' with your dick in your hand |
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Plus when shit hits the fan, I mean when Ras reach the crowd |
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And verse to verse, switch my aura then rotate Earth |
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And fuck that servin' emcees and livin' bummy |
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I'm on some show me the money and still educate the dummies |
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[CHORUS] |
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It's all about me for you and you for me |
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And playa if ya do for two we do for three |
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You think it's 'bout the cash, the cars and jew-el-ry |
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We livin' in the age of the ebonic plague [x2] |
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[Chadio] |
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You see the words is meshin' through this lyrical aggression |
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Punks pop shit we Joe Pesc'em no question |
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Cru session, no time for second guessin' |
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Frontin' or fessin', we full court pressin' |
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Testin', any in our way learn a lesson |
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Forever in my Stetson, chrome plated Wesson |
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We ain't got no time for excuses and reasons |
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Bringin' nuttin' but butta in all four seasons |
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Wanna blow my nose when I'm sneezin', wit' hundred dollar bills |
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Foes I'm squeezin', breezin' |
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Through your nearest town wit' the frown expression |
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Those Bronx streets left a lastin' impression |
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Now think about this, imagine Cru rhymers |
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Like this world with no clock bein' timeless |
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Pure dope when it come to the oratorical |
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Stay on the low wit' a dime that's adorable |
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Got the rap shit covered like long johns |
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Big brother Ant taught me how to bear arms |
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L.A. to D.C. I gets my P.C. |
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Keeps me a fifth of B.C. |
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And we gon' drink to your pass peeps that flashed heat |
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Never no more, when I pull I blast he |
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Think you could deal? You crazier than Bjork |
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Belong up on Fantasy Isle with Mr. Rourke |
