Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Cream 2001, artist - DJ Clue. Album song The Professional 2, in the genre R&BDate of issue: 31.12.2000
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Universal Music
Song language: English
Cream 2001 |
| Word up, word up |
| New shit. |
| Raekwon. |
| Ghostface |
| (Eh-yo, eh-yo, eh-yo.) |
| CREAM. |
| 2001 |
| (Who you? Who you?) |
| Fetch out. |
| my nigga RZA |
| (Yea. yea. yea.) |
| WHAAAAAAAT? |
| That’s right. |
| My nigga Clueminatti fuckin wit the intro, to murder somebody |
| We cheque-cash niggas wit four fingers on 'em |
| Callin the Lord, «Help me!», that’s us |
| Thrustin through ya hood wit the dust (HOOOOO!) |
| Lord have mercy, niggas look thirsty, yo |
| End the swine, meet the inventor, plus the winter |
| It’s mine, gasoline jump, just spiked gloves, nines |
| Watch my wave push, one chain faded out |
| Racin to Spain, half a million dollars in Boyd |
| Willy Aims, slap bop top of ya Glocks, plus black Reebox |
| Rockin real nigga shit, callin me Pops |
| Golden pro', kitchen designer shit |
| Chinchilla blankets, H. Winston anklets on |
| Drug dealer banquets, hands out, fire when we spit (Haha) |
| The position is lit, drop fifty out a blimp |
| Roast ya ornaments, Super Bowl ring on each finger |
| Gettin fly, might linger, those of you ride |
| So let the lye sprinkle yo |
| Yo we put together like CREAM |
| Matter of fact like a Jamaican team |
| Sprangler stats, hatin like Mitch Green |
| Off the wall auction that dumb out |
| (We organize exortions) |
| Burn niggas labels down, frostin 'em |
| Eh-yo, how you like two Ac’s? |
| Max in the trunk, lookin real dumb |
| Eighty-eight paper and our nose is numb |
| Prayed over Marvin Gaye’s grave |
| He said Ghost, «Pop merked me at an early age |
| Hit Diana back in the days» |
| Them Supreme bitches all on my dick |
| Loved the way I sung the Cherells |
| «Mercy, mercy, son», made 'em cum |
| I wrote songs for the people |
| Verses that’ll make Nixon resign |
| You can do the same thing with rhymes |
| «I swear Ghost is doobie, just imagine» |
| Check out what I started |
| Who’s the first to rock 'fros with out a part in it? |
| Featherhats partin it, Gladys was the baddest, she wore a six |
| Pretty-ass foot with an arch in it |
| Big cars, slammin eight-tracks, slammin tracks |
| King died in sixty-five, Motown cried |
| Saw a tear drop from Stevie’s eyes |
| Fogged out glasses |
| The plan was to bring together all the masses |
| DJ Clue. |
| Desert Storm |
| Fetch out. |
| Rip Right |
| Loud Records, Steve Rifkin, Epic |
| CLUE! |
| Money Mohammed Ali niggas who keep clean sneakers on |
| Beef and take niggas eats, streets brought all my features |
| Temped to clog bed rallies, imagine only seventeen wildin |
| Who spent thousand on 'em Ballies? |
| Now I’m just lampin, just stylin out in Cali |
| Actin like raw is the mission, mission is to slap 'em |
| Bang jars, movin in psalms, manipulatin my accountant |
| Relaxin like. |
| blacks get jobs |
| Slangin in bangles y’all, chillin from all angles |
| Don rock more thank you’s, gettin my shit washed |
| Elevator music, Rolex doors with thirty-seven whores |
| Countin the paper, takin y’all to walls |
| DJ Clue. |
| Desert Storm |
| The Professional, Pt. |
| 2 |
| Stupid! |
| Fetch out. |
| Dame Dash |
| My nigga Jigga, Big Harper |
| You know how we do things, word up |