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Nineteen ninety mother fuckin sixThat's that shit thoughGet the motherfuckin Squad packedWe got to pull these shoes out like carpet, word is bondTest the crew with the guns and let's get this shit onWhy, must I be like that? Why, must I pack the gat?On my left, niggaz be rollin with the ruckusReady to get deep bust rounds upon some suckazHeard PPP and LOD is a bunch of crazy motherfuckersJourney to the land is onThe winner of the spittin bomb marathonThe fuck you up lyrathon, whatever you chooseprepare to lose that titleTurnin vital situations suicidal, my idols, is my Uncleswho started smokin weed outta biblesGave me a puff when I bust my first rifleMen-estration cycles, I give bitchesBring your craziest nigga, I'll give stitchesWhateva, go crew for crew, blow for blowBang your headpiece and sniff the snow off your hoeI keep it rollin...Ask yourself manHow ugly do you have to be to be a hardcore MC?Niggaz be fooled by my plaques and my light skin complextureMy whole texture is bombin, destroyin da schools of the wackFrom the Land of the Lost, you get tossedListen to my veloc(ity), my crew's comin offYeah, more sneaky than casino switchesDiggin ditches for all Moskino bitchesClockin decimal figures, I'm gettin out diggersNow my choice of truck is a Landcause a Landcruise much biggerIt pack two to three more niggazDamn I hate a golddiggerYeah, gimme that microphoneI make opponents shit bricks like Tyson's homeI keep the jacked cellular phone blown in three zonesLove seafood and keep my nine millimis chromeSo it can shine up your domeWhen I proceed to give you what you need and clear spots like Sea BreezeWreckin your ass armaggedeon styleTwenty four seven whileMy crew chin check your profile(Rollin...)I'm the master of disaster, super rhyme makerGrimy by nature, database makerPlay em out like Sega, SaturnBlow your blocks in patterns for about nine acresTestes, crew wearin bulletproof and double S'sKarl Kani down, camoflouge can't hide the soundsof a fo' pound (boo-yaa)Givin you Six Flags, bustin merry go roundsBut my crew stay ill with that unreal appealI be the raw water, my cheek bones outta have gillsbelow like the operaSmooth on the trigger for all you block cockersI be the key to criminologyBlast and rotate enemies at three buck sixtyPick me, as your SenatorTake the dove from your battlefield son, fuck Pat BenatarRun, head for the hillsBack in the day, these niggaz rolled up on me with the trunk filled with Bomber Brooklyns, sheeps and quartervillesAiyyo take that shit, aiyyo Money snap the grillBody caught chills as he ate this nine milMine kills two but my nine was sign sealedAnd ready to deliver, but Money had me too closeto reach for toast, soon as that nigga blink I broke ghostDash back to South Orange Ave with dollar bill to smoke dopeI 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 upmore