Lyrics Buckwhylin' - Chris Lowe, PMD

Buckwhylin'

Yeah, whatchu want, whatchu want
Ay Chris Lowe yo
Why don’t you step to the mic and bless 'em with a jewel
Representin two-oh-three style, y’knahwhatImean?
Hit 'em in the head
Listen, to the situation my son
Lowe serious as cancer, all foes is done
With these beats, you got 'em from me
Now you can tell I been around since the JVC
I bring it back, the skull snap rap
The real rhythm on the real rap track
People think, the streets, as far as I see
Your boulevard look hard but it’s easy for me
Livin out in C-T, who the hell I be
Chris L-O-W-E that’s me
Cool with the riffin, guys keep a handle
If you don’t you get waxed like you a candle
Behind closed doors, I schemed on yours
Came back, haunted you and shocked your drawers
And then the time slid, like I did a quick bid
What go around come around like I’m doin right now
Buckwhylin, buckwhylin, buckwhylin, buckwhylin
Yo so check the C-T, 203 that’s when you catch P
Straight ballin, big up New Haven, where I roll strictly
My shit so raw like cocaine you wanna sniff me
My dick be, hard to spit so don’t piss me
Off, you and your crew, soft
You get knocked off, you crossed the God, «Rugged & Raw»
I’m warnin you all, big fat tall or small
Guns or brawls, could walk away like fuck you all
You can call me Chris Lowe, but I’m a top biller
Part time dealer, permanent killer
You know it get ill on the shank it’s for the scrilla
Ha, I’m like the rest of the best, I’m a thriller
See now you look like you lost, and you lost to me
Action, try to find a way to start to relaxin
Relaxin, you can look but you ain’t seein for me
Not 'less I got a hustle or muscle with P
Some people shocked and amazed at who I am
From Sleeping Bag cut short at Def Jam
You can see me chillin ain’t no skin off my back
Me and Chuck Chillout, watch the funk spill out
Through the speaker, feel it down in your sneaker
You jump to the thump like a Reebok pump
Lowe whylin
Pay attention while I rock the beat, one time
Pay attention while I be rockin the jam
I need a scratch — now my batteries is bangin
My raps raps with no explainin
You can fly high, hope you don’t die
You know I’m the type to make the player hater cry
Lookin up to me, what you think they see?
The fresh fantastic fly funky MC
C’mon, even the score, sound you a door
Only got one album, hope I get one more
So, please, take the rhymes like these
The beats is red hot like a hundred degrees
Son duke, this ain’t a fluke
So believe me when I tell you don’t pull out if you ain’t gon' shoot
You look nervous, might as well join the circus
Yo you need the discipline, trouble the shit you in
Go whylin