Y'all ready for this?
|
Ha! I don't think so!
|
Yeah! Oh, listen to this!
|
We gonna come at ya!
|
|
[Redman]
|
Cypress Hill!
|
Yo yo yo - all my niggas say jump up, doc broke out the kennel
|
A dog on four paws spittin' out the window
|
Jump up! It aint no need to fight
|
We may squeeze the pipe, you gonna bleed tonight
|
I eat beans and rice, shit up a storm
|
I walk the streets with shark fin off my arms
|
Doctor Dolittle, lit off the bone
|
My bracelet like I raised it off the farm
|
Home-grown, thick, dirty
|
My family feud dudes who pack 2's on survey
|
Jersey and house
|
Gun like an elephants snout
|
Pull ya ambulance out
|
Ya whole team'll get bombarded
|
Ya on target, and bombed by some unsigned artists
|
We leave ya hair cut like a blind barber
|
Cut it, and gave you a line with fine markers
|
I won't leave till the job is done
|
Till the last prick nigga take ya wallet, RUN
|
Doc with the shotty and we both catch a body with Cypress Hill
|
Yeah!
|
|
[Chorus: B-Real]
|
We don't give a fuck, we live it up till the day we die
|
You try to deal with us, but you got no blunts to get high
|
You won't be real with us, but ya reelin' us and you want to ride
|
You try to deal with us, but you got no blunts to get high
|
|
[Method Man]
|
Yo, yo
|
Blunt smokin', half a bottle of remi open
|
You either holdin' or half-assed like Simmy Colan
|
I leave ya chokin' on them lollipop rhymes ya callin'
|
So hard, hell I crack the shell on ya candy coatin'
|
If the shoes fit like Alan I be too thick
|
Ever since you hit, yo my new chicks a new bitch
|
Ya know if I can't eat, ya can't sleep
|
Plus I'm in denial, I just can't admit defeat
|
My mind is my glock, keep my third eye cocked
|
Bust mines off tops, leave a rapper's nerves shocked
|
Now who's hot and who's not
|
I want them rocks and that money in ya two socks
|
Meth the mister, if crime is an art, then let me paint a picture
|
I'm gone, Kodak can't even frame the riddler
|
Gold realin', Meth, doc, Cypress Hiller
|
Whoever think they fuckin' with that, lets be realer
|
|
[Chorus]
|
|
[B-Real]
|
Take the back seat and smash beats
|
Smoke blunts through ya lungs and flips ya brain cells like athletes
|
Run a track meet, the rhymes on ya rap sheet
|
With the foot long crush bong, look your collapsing, sicko
|
They go on the break-off, mental breakdown and shit you wouldn't think of
|
I spread it to Reggie, chances are better but deadly
|
You wanna be friendly on the get high Bentley
|
You twisted up, burnt out within seconds
|
Cos you couldn't hang with the John Blaze methods
|
Bong hittin', doc spittin', shark bitten
|
Star stricken, glock clickin', stop shittin'
|
Inhale the smoke from the master's lungs
|
You wanna roll up, yo I'm the fastest one (ha!)
|
You wanna test with the sess, well first off
|
That shit is funny like Kid Rock with his shirt off
|
|
[Chorus X2]
|
|
-----------------
|
Red, Meth & B
|
| Cypress Hill |
