| Song | Rollin' |
| Artist | Redman |
| Album | Muddy Waters |
| Nineteen ninety mother ****in six | |
| That's that shit though | |
| Get the mother****in 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 mother****ers | |
| Journey to the land is on | |
| The winner of the spittin bomb marathon | |
| The **** 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, **** 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 mother****er | |
| 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 ****in up |
| Nineteen ninety mother in six | |
| That' s that shit though | |
| Get the mother in 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 mother ers | |
| Journey to the land is on | |
| The winner of the spittin bomb marathon | |
| The 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 | |
| Menestration 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 booyaa | |
| 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, 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 mother er | |
| 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 in up |