Оригинален текст
Tiffany
Bobby, I'm tired of yo' s**t, nigg*!
I'm tired of you comin' in at 3 o'clock in the mornin'
nigg*, you got a family here
You act like you don't fkin' know that s**t
nigg*, what the fk?
RZA *overlapped by chorus*
Yo, yo, yo, yo..
Growin' up in crazy Cali
Yo, yo, yo..
Chorus 1 - Force MD's
Digital, these should be crazy
Growin' up as a Brooklyn baby
Bedstuy, this is my life..
RZA
Yo, yo, yo..
A Brooklyn baby, I was bron up in King's County
Inside the womb seven months before the Queen found me
Up in wroughty Brownsville with fiends around me
Now roam gat in Staten with Cream Team around me
They called me Bobby, cousin, really got the black Harley
Taught his son how to spike cats like Lee Harvey
Oswald, all's well that ends well
My big brother Divine, he pushed the Benz well
I got the cherry Range, broke and rockin' heavy chains
I'm from the tribe of men who would bury Kings
On the back of the A-train, my daydream
Should I make a phat hit or should I take CREAM?
From the Clan that taught you Cash Rules
I make soul grind tracks, you grab as* too
Give respect to the Prince when he pass through
Might have a chocolate deluxe in a glass shoe
Cousin Billy, known to strap the black uzi
Two-two in front of the Jakes like Jack Ruby
Live on TV where you see B-O-B-B-Y
D-I-G-I-T-A-L, A-L, things ain't too well
Chorus 1
Chorus 2 - Force MD's
Digital, these should be crazy
Growin' up as a Brooklyn baby
This is how I live my life..
Masta Killa
Yeah..
Peace Lafyetee, Stuyvessant, Malcolm X
Shot dice on green, we live from Calasky y'all
It's Fred Glassy, zig-zag-zig through traffic
Get the herb, get the God, peace Ra'
What's the word on things?
Through the phone I heard the bangin' sounds
in the background, layin' down
I'm spittin' what the people missin'
We extreme with the murder type theme
Don't sleep, get ya head split to the white meat
Big guns, down South we blaze
Shippin' bodies back up North, it's the Weston
Wild Texan, no trespassin'
Long mics h*t the dead arm
Planet Earth, home of Islam
Brooklyn, I was physically born, clothes torn
Rough tacklin' the streets, Allah Math' spine Technics
We bring heat to the block party, drinkin' Bacardi
Baggin' shorties for the homies who ain't here
Chorus - both to fade
Tiffany *overlapped by chorus*
Bobby, that's right, you ain't s**t, nigg*
You ain't s**t, but a big d*ck and a mothafkin' cheque
All that fkin' Brooklyn s**t, Shaolin s**t
nigg*, grow the fk up!
What the fk is up with you, nigg*?
You ain't s**t, nigg*
Comin' in high off that s**t
What the fk?
I'm tired of yo' s**t
What the fk is that s**t anyway?
What the fk?
And your cousin Billy, I'm sick of that mothafka
That mothafka could never come up in this
mothafkin' house ever again
He's a criminal mothafkin' gangsta, see that s**t?
A criminal, I'm sick of that s**t
I'm sick of yo' s**t, Bobby *echoes*
Brooklyn this, Shaolin that
What the fk, nigg*?
I don't know why I love your stupid as* anyway
Pssh.. but I do love you Bobby