Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Bucktown USA, artist - Cocoa Brovaz. Date of issue: 31.12.1997
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Bucktown USA |
| Yeah |
| Y-Yeah |
| Once again |
| Bucktown USA is the place where I rest |
| Should I say chill 'cause there ain’t no rest for me yet |
| Shit, I can’t say chill. |
| cause the property’s hot |
| Got to get it while the gettin’could be got or get not |
| 'Cause of those who cop block, or those who get not |
| Spillin’beans like a cook to them crooked ass cops |
| To all my G’s don’t snooze |
| 'Cause they crews in blues and whites |
| Comin’to the PJ’s lookin’for fights |
| Mr. Officer cool down your temper |
| Me just cool you n’alf to come like no murderer |
| I try to do my thing, and you try to take me in Have me stressed with a bunch of dope fiends in the pen |
| Then again |
| That’s the place where you see the same face in thew street |
| Everybody got to charge the beat |
| Once again |
| Facin’the magistrate with the screwface |
| Bounce on the D-A-T-S-T-B, the new case |
| Bucktown |
| Home where the grass is greenah |
| And all the gods and earths choose a court in Medina |
| Bucktown |
| The place where I received my roots |
| Got put on to this loot |
| And got my first Tim boots |
| Bucktown |
| See me in the G-S-T-0−0 |
| On the side of the road |
| Gettin’harrassed by po-po's |
| Bucktown |
| Home of my B-C-C |
| And everybody that I roll with, the family |
| Boot Camp’s the way of life for a loner like me Constantly holdin’courts in the street with police |
| Like the sergeant 81st, pretty boy is what they call 'em |
| Said he was a gun man, duke is kinda brawlic |
| Speaks with an accent, ??? |
| I would imagine |
| A hot-headed dred known for jumping into action |
| We danced a few times |
| He got his, I got mine |
| Called the whole force up to pat us down for the crime |
| Said it’s all about a quarter and his veins bleed blue |
| Your man Rudey, Juliani fucked it up for you |
| Ain’t gonna be no dice throwin' |
| Dead that weed blowin' |
| Domestic violence, automatic fire, he ain’t jokin' |
| Now you first offenders are gettin’hit like predicates |
| Goin’through the system just for standin’on the strip |
| Gotta keep an open eye when it’s time to cop la From dirty ass deeds and unmarks ridin’by |
| Home of the Originoo Gunn Clappaz |
| And bank safe crackers |
| Pot-pushin hustlers and everyday jackers |
| When flauntin’get cautioned if you don’t ride with the right crew |
| ??? |
| and bust off when they can front on you |
| I still do Smoke buds with the thugs |
| About to face the judge |
| Show all my niggaz love |
| I can’t knock the hustle, get your cream by all means |
| Do what you gotta do to live, to feed you and your seeds |
| Bucktown’s everywhere I see |
| Representatives livin’nocturnally |
| Break a day on the regular |
| All night is all right with us As long as we can get rid of the red we get the better |
| But never lose your head, just maintain |
| Only use the cushion pain to ease your brain |
| No strain |
| When Tek and Steele bang |
| Ain’t shit changed from birth |
| B-C-C degrees, on to them other planes |
| Fam |