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Rollin'
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Redman
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1
Nineteen ninety mother fuckin six
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That's that shit though
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Get the motherfuckin Squad packed
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We got to pull these shoes out like carpet, word is bond
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Test the crew with the guns and let's get this shit on
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Why, must I be like that? Why, must I pack the gat?
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On my left, niggaz be rollin with the ruckus
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Ready to get deep bust rounds upon some suckaz
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Heard PPP and LOD is a bunch of crazy motherfuckers
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Journey to the land is on
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The winner of the spittin bomb marathon
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The fuck you up lyrathon, whatever you choose
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prepare to lose that title
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Turnin vital situations suicidal, my idols, is my Uncles
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who started smokin weed outta bibles
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Gave me a puff when I bust my first rifle
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Men-estration cycles, I give bitches
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Bring your craziest nigga, I'll give stitches
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Whateva, go crew for crew, blow for blow
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Bang your headpiece and sniff the snow off your hoe
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I keep it rollin
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Ask yourself man
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How ugly do you have to be to be a hardcore MC?
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Niggaz be fooled by my plaques and my light skin complexture
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My whole texture is bombin, destroyin da schools of the wack
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From the Land of the Lost, you get tossed
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Listen to my veloc(ity), my crew's comin off
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Yeah, more sneaky than casino switches
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Diggin ditches for all Moskino bitches
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Clockin decimal figures, I'm gettin out diggers
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Now my choice of truck is a Land
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cause a Landcruise much bigger
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It pack two to three more niggaz
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Damn I hate a golddigger
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Yeah, gimme that microphone
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I make opponents shit bricks like Tyson's home
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I keep the jacked cellular phone blown in three zones
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Love seafood and keep my nine millimis chrome
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So it can shine up your dome
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When I proceed to give you what you need and clear spots like Sea Breeze
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Wreckin your ass armaggedeon style
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Twenty four seven while
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My crew chin check your profile
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(Rollin)
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I'm the master of disaster, super rhyme maker
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Grimy by nature, database maker
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Play em out like Sega, Saturn
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Blow your blocks in patterns for about nine acres
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Testes, crew wearin bulletproof and double S's
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Karl Kani down, camoflouge can't hide the sounds
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of a fo' pound (boo-yaa)
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Givin you Six Flags, bustin merry go rounds
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But my crew stay ill with that unreal appeal
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I be the raw water, my cheek bones outta have gills
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below like the opera
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Smooth on the trigger for all you block cockers
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I be the key to criminology
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Blast and rotate enemies at three buck sixty
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Pick me, as your Senator
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Take the dove from your battlefield son, fuck Pat Benatar
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Run, head for the hills
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Back in the day, these niggaz rolled up on me with
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the trunk filled with Bomber Brooklyns, sheeps and quartervilles
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Aiyyo take that shit, aiyyo Money snap the grill
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Body caught chills as he ate this nine mil
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Mine kills two but my nine was sign sealed
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And ready to deliver, but Money had me too close
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to reach for toast, soon as that nigga blink I broke ghost
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Dash back to South Orange Ave with dollar bill to smoke dope
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I keep em rollin
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This is DJ SAY WHAT?? on this motherfucker
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Sayin the dick is long, but my time is short
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Before I go, just remember
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If your box ain't on FDS radio, you're fuckin up
Limp Bizkit - Rollin' (Air Raid Vehicle)
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