Nineteen ninety mother fuckin six

That's that shit though

Get the motherfuckin 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 motherfuckers

Journey to the land is on

The winner of the spittin bomb marathon

The fuck 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, fuck 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 motherfucker

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 fuckin up