Redman: Rollin

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