Rollin'

Nineteen ninety mother fkin six
That's that s**t though
Get the motherfkin 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 s**t on

Why, must I be like that? Why, must I pack the gat?
On my left, be rollin with the ruckus
Ready to get deep bust rounds upon some suckaz
Heard PPP and LOD is a bunch of crazy motherfkers
Journey to the land is on
The winner of the spittin bomb marathon
The fk 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 girls
Bring your craziest nigg*, 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 hardc*re MC?
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 girls
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
d*mn I hate a golddigger
Yeah, gimme that microphone
I make opponents s**t 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 as* 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 c*ckers
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, fk Pat Benatar
Run, head for the hills
Back in the day, these rolled up on me with
the trunk filled with Bomber Brooklyns, sheeps and quartervilles
Aiyyo take that s**t, 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 nigg* 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 motherfker
Sayin the d*ck is long, but my time is short
Before I go, just remember
If your box ain't on FDS radio, you're fkin up