Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Come On, artist - DJ Clue. Album song The Professional, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 31.12.1997
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Universal Music
Song language: English
Come On |
| Aiyyo Rock, Rock, Rock |
| Everybody say Rock, not Lou from suburbs to PJ’s |
| So watch ya hootchie, groupies get dudes beat up |
| Or heat is leave the scene and BLAZE to get ya fleece stuck |
| See me on the streets 'bra, I’ll break yo' teeth up and take yo' beeper |
| Two piece your man and let Big Noc put him in a sleeper |
| Then see ya, catch me in a club on a wall |
| Spliff in my hand, big-booty broad winin on my balls |
| Surrounded my thugs, maybe two or two times ten |
| Plus the other nine cats, my Rapper Card got in (Your Rapper Card?) |
| Yeah my Rapper Card, it works in live sessions |
| Plus barbecues, hoes, clubs, weed spots ecetera |
| Buckshot rock knots wit fists |
| Niggas stay high while I rock wit this |
| Mobb on y’all niggas like The Infamous |
| Too close wit the dillinger, two shots I don’t miss |
| I’m wiggin out while I’m diggin out backs |
| Run from the gun claps, run three laps |
| Perhaps, them niggas you sent to carjack |
| Buckshot got stopped in they tracks wit macs |
| Now this is what I act like when I smoke on black |
| Stay high wit the lazy-eye, bomb wit facts |
| From the, street Bible or the street Quran |
| Fake thugs ride the dick when my shit comes on |
| I’m a nappy little nigga, still goin strong |
| You can eat a dick while I eat a thong (CLUE!) |
| But still the bomb |
| It’s the wave-king, rock the two tone Wallees strip-ons |
| Don’t wanna end up miss-on, then play your positi-on |
| My grimy Brooklyn niggas stay flippin ya chick |
| While my crew from New Jerus stay vickin ya whips |
| Tek is the shit, ain’t nobody spittin like this |
| Deep impact steez been like a chromed out six |
| Wit the AMG kit, Ericsson wit the chip |
| Y’all stockin-cap copy-cats, get off the dick |
| I keep the livin quarter held down wit two nines |
| One in the bed, one in the bathroom at all times |
| So while I’m takin a shit, I’m at route and plan a hit |
| The amount we flip depends on what we get |
| It’s like a Wall Street trick, dirty money move quick |
| My mans wear stones you can tip the scales wit |
| On they ears and wrists alone for every deaf one’s bone |
| Look, ain’t no tellin how many gats I’ve thrown |
| (Steele) |
| Come on (yo for all my dogs gettin wild) |
| Come on (yo yo for all the shorties on the prowl) |
| Come on (yo yo for all the soldiers on the streets) |
| Come on (yo yo it’s yo' time to eat) |
| Yo the set I claim is the set that bang |
| To the muthafuckin end, I be doin my thing (YEAH!) |
| Lidu Rock, know the name in New York we G stackin |
| First the Bloods and the Crips, now bitches is carjackin |
| Like my nigga Craig and em say, «Fuck that shit!» |
| Rockin shines in the 'Ville, you better tuck that shit |
| Or watch yo' step baby, watch where you walk |
| I put a slug up in yo' mouth so that ass won’t talk |
| For real son, now we got mad cops on the block |
| Cuz we hold it down for Doc and I keep my heat cocked |
| Lidu Rock, what the fuck I know y’all niggas mad at me |
| So if you rep for yours go 'head take a stab at me, muthafucker |
| You a many style copy-cat, ?bendy mile? |
| stockin cap |
| Fake nigga from the projects who ain’t got a gat |
| Ruck reign supreme, aim the steam |
| When the gun click, your ass shit navy beans |
| Maybe these, niggas ain’t ready for the Magnum |
| Force, the Holocaust, balls I just dragged them |
| Off lost in the sauce and of course I’m glad them |
| Monkey niggas don’t fuck wit the Ruck cuz they fags, son |
| The last one, to step to Sean P caught a bad one |
| Quincy toes tagged em after somebody stabbed em |
| Cornball niggas wit drugs thinkin they weight great |
| Still bummin money for stoges and a Drakes cake |
| Get it straight, y’all niggas fuckin wit some heavyweights |
| Boot Camp-ion champions on point like paper mates |
| Demonstrate, spectacular venacular |
| Smackin ya upside the back of ya head wit a spatula |
| Snatchin ya, off the street like police |
| Next week, they find your body washin up on the beach |
| Don’t speak if you ain’t at norm (ain't got nuttin to say fool) |
| Tally on, be gone, as we rally strong |
| See me in Brook-lyn where crooks be armed |
| Terrorial disputes leave you in memorial suites |
| Callin your troops, I shoot straight stay in ya place |
| We the type you love to hate cuz we stay in your face |
| Sayin our grace before we put our hands in our plates |
| Carnivorous lyricist, niggas fish like fillet |
| My mind spray like a murderer’s nine spray |
| The crime way, get mine three-hundred sixty-five day |
| DJ Clue, The Professional |
| Part One, you know how we do it |
| Word up, rest in peace my nigga Donnie Brasco |
| My nigga B.I.G. |
| word up |
| And we out, till next time |
| For all parties Big Skane 800−570−3657 |
| Aight then |