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  • RZA »

    RZA Brooklyn Babies текст песни

    Brooklyn Babies

    From: mack10 mack10@amik.ru

    Bobby, I’m tired of yo’ shit, nigga!
    I’m tired of you comin’ in at 3 o’clock in the mornin’
    Nigga, you got a family here
    You act like you don’t fuckin’ know that shit
    Nigga, what the fuck?
    [RZA {*overlapped by chorus*}]
    Yo, yo, yo, yo..
    Growin’ up in crazy Cali
    Yo, yo, yo..

    [Chorus 1 - Force MD's]
    Digital, these niggas should be crazy
    Growin’ up as a Brooklyn baby
    Bedstuy, this is my life..

    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 ass 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 niggas should be crazy
    Growin’ up as a Brooklyn baby
    This is how I live my life..

    [Masta Killa]
    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 hit 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 shit, nigga
    You ain’t shit, but a big dick and a mothafuckin’ cheque
    All that fuckin’ Brooklyn shit, Shaolin shit
    Nigga, grow the fuck up!
    What the fuck is up with you, nigga?
    You ain’t shit, nigga
    Comin’ in high off that shit
    What the fuck?
    I’m tired of yo’ shit
    What the fuck is that shit anyway?
    What the fuck?
    And your cousin Billy, I’m sick of that mothafucka
    That mothafucka could never come up in this
    mothafuckin’ house ever again
    He’s a criminal mothafuckin’ gangsta, see that shit?
    A criminal, I’m sick of that shit
    I’m sick of yo’ shit, Bobby {*echoes*}
    Brooklyn this, Shaolin that
    What the fuck, nigga?
    I don’t know why I love your stupid ass anyway
    Pssh.. but I do love you Bobby

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