Whutcha Want? Lyrics
| Song | Whutcha Want? |
| Artist | Nine |
| Album | Anthems Hip Hop 4 - Ministry of Sound |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| Verse one： | |
| I gets banned if i do gets banned if i don't | |
| So sometimes i will and sometimes i won't | |
| Puff mad stick crack a forty down the back | |
| Sit fat and relax and plan my attack | |
| Not the one to test i posess mad finesse | |
| My buddha was blessed one bird in the nest | |
| Chills with my peeps steady bouncing in jeeps | |
| On the new york streets hittin urban concrete | |
| I'm the man untestable, with the extraterrestrial flow | |
| Fo'-fifty-fix celo, pop the top off the forty ounce bottle | |
| I'm not the one to follow, i'm not the role model | |
| Hollow tips in my clips money grip and my glock | |
| Only spits when i react to the bullshit | |
| So give me room to breathe and get up off deez | |
| And save the confessions for jeesuz | |
| Plus i don't need to hear no sorrow | |
| Eff it, the sun will still come out tomorrow | |
| Long as i'm breathing, needing, even like steven | |
| Achieving, gettin some cheese and | |
| Representin lovely, boogie down bronx major | |
| With the project flavor, i made ya, daze ya | |
| My behavior is mad ill if you front | |
| You know what i want! | |
| Chorus: | |
| (whutcha want nine?) fat beats for my rides | |
| (so whutcha want nine?) mad clips for my nines | |
| (so whutcha want nine?) a ill posse | |
| And my name up in lights, n-i-n-e | |
| Verse two: | |
| I'ma let you know how i feel on the real | |
| I pack steel it's like a jungle makes me wonder where my eel is | |
| Hits the bricks skips the dog shit complete in my cipher | |
| Temper like rowdy rowdy piper, hyper like a viper | |
| I'ma strike if i got it goin for the jugular | |
| Stretch you like a copper | |
| Stoppah, stoppah, but you can't stop me | |
| Just clock me, just watch me blow up the spot g | |
| Came a long way from, back in the day | |
| We did it for no pay, just rhymin hit the hay and | |
| Sleep, wake up, write another rhyme | |
| Hit the park after dark drop the beat one time | |
| That's when shit was real, no phonies no baloney | |
| Just the homemade mics and wheels of steel | |
| Backup from the roof, amp plugged in the street light | |
| Everything right, jam over a street fight | |
| Back to the lab i grab my pen and pad | |
| Raw lyrics make a fleuredoscad | |
| Had no dinero, enough get fo' chicken wings and rice | |
| A forty ounce a nickel bag to get nice | |
| And now i might make a million, and still son | |
| It makes the heart pump, you know what i want | |
| Chorus | |
| Verse three: | |
| Be like elmer j. fudd with the mansion and the yacht | |
| Brand new glock non-stop hip-hop | |
| Remote control boombox lampin on my dresser | |
| The god ain't no lesser as the pressure comes to test ya | |
| Hundred pound weight around the neck, daily | |
| Nuff treasons nuff reasons like philip bailey | |
| Can't get enough of that funky stuff | |
| Rhymin astronomical, original, shit is phenomenal | |
| Heat up the ghetto put the pedal to the metal | |
| Speed like racer treat you like a wack rhyme and erase ya | |
| Right off the pape i roll a big fat spliff | |
| Four-fifth on the hip, heineken in the grip shit i'm ready | |
| Get the keys for the jeep, let's bounce | |
| Cruise avenues, get some brews and sing the blues with the | |
| Funkmaster flex cassette in the deck | |
| I'm in effect i move my neck while son gets wreck | |
| Oh what a feeling, i'm on the wheels of steel and | |
| I snatch up some skins for some sexual healing | |
| Erything's kosher copasctetic, groovy hip-hop moves me | |
| Soothes me, i'm letting off like an uzi | |
| But first steps a doozy and bruise me | |
| Now i'm choosy before i start to freak it like a floozy | |
| I wanna get big get paid true stunt | |
| You know what i want! | |
| Chorus |
| Verse one: | |
| I gets banned if i do gets banned if i don' t | |
| So sometimes i will and sometimes i won' t | |
| Puff mad stick crack a forty down the back | |
| Sit fat and relax and plan my attack | |
| Not the one to test i posess mad finesse | |
| My buddha was blessed one bird in the nest | |
| Chills with my peeps steady bouncing in jeeps | |
| On the new york streets hittin urban concrete | |
| I' m the man untestable, with the extraterrestrial flow | |
| Fo' fiftyfix celo, pop the top off the forty ounce bottle | |
| I' m not the one to follow, i' m not the role model | |
| Hollow tips in my clips money grip and my glock | |
| Only spits when i react to the bullshit | |
| So give me room to breathe and get up off deez | |
| And save the confessions for jeesuz | |
| Plus i don' t need to hear no sorrow | |
| Eff it, the sun will still come out tomorrow | |
| Long as i' m breathing, needing, even like steven | |
| Achieving, gettin some cheese and | |
| Representin lovely, boogie down bronx major | |
| With the project flavor, i made ya, daze ya | |
| My behavior is mad ill if you front | |
| You know what i want! | |
| Chorus: | |
| whutcha want nine? fat beats for my rides | |
| so whutcha want nine? mad clips for my nines | |
| so whutcha want nine? a ill posse | |
| And my name up in lights, nine | |
| Verse two: | |
| I' ma let you know how i feel on the real | |
| I pack steel it' s like a jungle makes me wonder where my eel is | |
| Hits the bricks skips the dog shit complete in my cipher | |
| Temper like rowdy rowdy piper, hyper like a viper | |
| I' ma strike if i got it goin for the jugular | |
| Stretch you like a copper | |
| Stoppah, stoppah, but you can' t stop me | |
| Just clock me, just watch me blow up the spot g | |
| Came a long way from, back in the day | |
| We did it for no pay, just rhymin hit the hay and | |
| Sleep, wake up, write another rhyme | |
| Hit the park after dark drop the beat one time | |
| That' s when shit was real, no phonies no baloney | |
| Just the homemade mics and wheels of steel | |
| Backup from the roof, amp plugged in the street light | |
| Everything right, jam over a street fight | |
| Back to the lab i grab my pen and pad | |
| Raw lyrics make a fleuredoscad | |
| Had no dinero, enough get fo' chicken wings and rice | |
| A forty ounce a nickel bag to get nice | |
| And now i might make a million, and still son | |
| It makes the heart pump, you know what i want | |
| Chorus | |
| Verse three: | |
| Be like elmer j. fudd with the mansion and the yacht | |
| Brand new glock nonstop hiphop | |
| Remote control boombox lampin on my dresser | |
| The god ain' t no lesser as the pressure comes to test ya | |
| Hundred pound weight around the neck, daily | |
| Nuff treasons nuff reasons like philip bailey | |
| Can' t get enough of that funky stuff | |
| Rhymin astronomical, original, shit is phenomenal | |
| Heat up the ghetto put the pedal to the metal | |
| Speed like racer treat you like a wack rhyme and erase ya | |
| Right off the pape i roll a big fat spliff | |
| Fourfifth on the hip, heineken in the grip shit i' m ready | |
| Get the keys for the jeep, let' s bounce | |
| Cruise avenues, get some brews and sing the blues with the | |
| Funkmaster flex cassette in the deck | |
| I' m in effect i move my neck while son gets wreck | |
| Oh what a feeling, i' m on the wheels of steel and | |
| I snatch up some skins for some sexual healing | |
| Erything' s kosher copasctetic, groovy hiphop moves me | |
| Soothes me, i' m letting off like an uzi | |
| But first steps a doozy and bruise me | |
| Now i' m choosy before i start to freak it like a floozy | |
| I wanna get big get paid true stunt | |
| You know what i want! | |
| Chorus |
| Verse one: | |
| I gets banned if i do gets banned if i don' t | |
| So sometimes i will and sometimes i won' t | |
| Puff mad stick crack a forty down the back | |
| Sit fat and relax and plan my attack | |
| Not the one to test i posess mad finesse | |
| My buddha was blessed one bird in the nest | |
| Chills with my peeps steady bouncing in jeeps | |
| On the new york streets hittin urban concrete | |
| I' m the man untestable, with the extraterrestrial flow | |
| Fo' fiftyfix celo, pop the top off the forty ounce bottle | |
| I' m not the one to follow, i' m not the role model | |
| Hollow tips in my clips money grip and my glock | |
| Only spits when i react to the bullshit | |
| So give me room to breathe and get up off deez | |
| And save the confessions for jeesuz | |
| Plus i don' t need to hear no sorrow | |
| Eff it, the sun will still come out tomorrow | |
| Long as i' m breathing, needing, even like steven | |
| Achieving, gettin some cheese and | |
| Representin lovely, boogie down bronx major | |
| With the project flavor, i made ya, daze ya | |
| My behavior is mad ill if you front | |
| You know what i want! | |
| Chorus: | |
| whutcha want nine? fat beats for my rides | |
| so whutcha want nine? mad clips for my nines | |
| so whutcha want nine? a ill posse | |
| And my name up in lights, nine | |
| Verse two: | |
| I' ma let you know how i feel on the real | |
| I pack steel it' s like a jungle makes me wonder where my eel is | |
| Hits the bricks skips the dog shit complete in my cipher | |
| Temper like rowdy rowdy piper, hyper like a viper | |
| I' ma strike if i got it goin for the jugular | |
| Stretch you like a copper | |
| Stoppah, stoppah, but you can' t stop me | |
| Just clock me, just watch me blow up the spot g | |
| Came a long way from, back in the day | |
| We did it for no pay, just rhymin hit the hay and | |
| Sleep, wake up, write another rhyme | |
| Hit the park after dark drop the beat one time | |
| That' s when shit was real, no phonies no baloney | |
| Just the homemade mics and wheels of steel | |
| Backup from the roof, amp plugged in the street light | |
| Everything right, jam over a street fight | |
| Back to the lab i grab my pen and pad | |
| Raw lyrics make a fleuredoscad | |
| Had no dinero, enough get fo' chicken wings and rice | |
| A forty ounce a nickel bag to get nice | |
| And now i might make a million, and still son | |
| It makes the heart pump, you know what i want | |
| Chorus | |
| Verse three: | |
| Be like elmer j. fudd with the mansion and the yacht | |
| Brand new glock nonstop hiphop | |
| Remote control boombox lampin on my dresser | |
| The god ain' t no lesser as the pressure comes to test ya | |
| Hundred pound weight around the neck, daily | |
| Nuff treasons nuff reasons like philip bailey | |
| Can' t get enough of that funky stuff | |
| Rhymin astronomical, original, shit is phenomenal | |
| Heat up the ghetto put the pedal to the metal | |
| Speed like racer treat you like a wack rhyme and erase ya | |
| Right off the pape i roll a big fat spliff | |
| Fourfifth on the hip, heineken in the grip shit i' m ready | |
| Get the keys for the jeep, let' s bounce | |
| Cruise avenues, get some brews and sing the blues with the | |
| Funkmaster flex cassette in the deck | |
| I' m in effect i move my neck while son gets wreck | |
| Oh what a feeling, i' m on the wheels of steel and | |
| I snatch up some skins for some sexual healing | |
| Erything' s kosher copasctetic, groovy hiphop moves me | |
| Soothes me, i' m letting off like an uzi | |
| But first steps a doozy and bruise me | |
| Now i' m choosy before i start to freak it like a floozy | |
| I wanna get big get paid true stunt | |
| You know what i want! | |
| Chorus |
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