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