Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song 90's Flow, artist - Dj Kay Slay. Date of issue: 16.12.2021
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
90's Flow |
| Can’t nobody stop my flow |
| Yo, yo yo yo, ah |
| I rep New York way above the rest |
| Whippin' the double R, knockin' Crooklyn’s best |
| Fuck all you hoes, get a grip, motherfucker |
| If mines don’t shoot ya, Pistol P gon cut ya |
| Slay hit me up, said he the black Fat Joe again |
| So I pull a mask, grab the straps, now I’m going in |
| Mind on my money, and money bring the problems |
| See my nine never funny, wasn’t laughing when I shot him |
| Summertime in the city where the bodies drop |
| Your enemies’ll throw a party like it’s Mardi Gras |
| Nigga I’m right here, you know right where |
| BX, New York, Polos and Nike Airs |
| I’m liable to bring a lion to a dogfight |
| Reliable to push the iron on an off night |
| Slay got the streets locked, Mello got the Garden packed |
| Told him, «Thirteen for the half» and he brought it back |
| It’s not a game, this is not a show |
| We do it up for the money cause it’s all we know |
| So go and tell your folks, can’t nobody stop my flow |
| Yo, yo, you would think I’m in a laundry mat, powder everywhere |
| One blink like poof, I’m in Times Square |
| With a dime, yeah, she fuckin' with a crime bear |
| Named stuck like a blind dare |
| Y’all make sure y’all fix the G |
| Don’t want nothin' crooked around here 'less a crook schemin' on me |
| Together we live, forever I burn |
| With an antibiotic flow, controlling y’all germs |
| Medellin crop dog cartel |
| I’m Roger Moore in the double-0 suite sippin' Martell |
| '86 Giant, you can ask Parcell |
| Raided niggas' flats, grey and black R shell |
| Put your ear to the speaker, this is rap Easter |
| Snatched niggas' eggs and shit, bone ya senorita |
| Large Glocks, mortgage is fifteen in three spots |
| Interest is too far, you can’t eavesdrop |
| You can’t sneeze, ock |
| Got the Slomin’s shell system high power, look, hidden in the trees, hop |
| Hop over my gate, I come out blazing |
| And a nigga stay in a rage so I ain’t grazing |
| Haulin' sharks snorkels, Russian hats |
| Cooling in Amsterdam, the windchill factor is a wrap |
| My telescope solid gold, the dresser is clear |
| Stuntin' magazine and some gear |
| We clear on how to cook, rhyme and sling |
| Most of my blings is auctioned, now I’m in a sweatsuit in the rain |
| Forbes horse smell of her fragrance, maxing in France |
| Harry Winston made a belt for my pants |
| A hundred for the necklace, two hundred on the watch |
| That’s infectious, your money ain’t pure, I can’t protect this |
| You live in the trenches, wrangling the Sprint bus |
| Guns is under the loveseat with the dumb dust |
| Pump one, pump 'em all, pass the suitcase with the blue faces |
| Rubber band wrapped in shoelaces |
| Yeah I can’t call it, it’s just living, I orbit |
| Shit is so hard, don’t gotta talk it |
| I wore shiny suits with Puff, did freestyles with B.I.G |
| Made Reservoir with Hov and I’m back, my nig' |
| G-G-Graveyard flow, I show you how to dig |
| Half of that boy or a ki of that Lindsay |
| Dropped the EP now New York is in a frenzy |
| Been waiting on the LOX, these lil' niggas rappin' like they 12 |
| So I guess they waiting on they pops |
| O-Old nigga, new nigga need to know this |
| Ain’t none of y’all fuckin' with me, Styles and Kiss |
| This ain’t beef, this lyrical sparring |
| Beef is when I’m sitting in the garage you parked your car in |
| Still go out on the block, get high, give goons a dap |
| With you, it’s only when you rap |
| Put the gun down pussy, who the fuck you gon clap? |
| Get the fuck out the game |
| If you wasn’t hot last year, '14 gon be the goddamn same, nigga |
| It’s not a game, this is not a show |
| We do it up for the money cause it’s all we know |
| So go and tell your folks, can’t nobody stop my flow |
| You already know, Slay, I got you baby, uh |
| I’d love to get a Grammy and eventually will |
| Right now, my main focus letting them centuries build |
| Bentley for real jade red, haters want me dead |
| But the Lord want me living, fuck prison, I’m in position |
| Tip top condition, listen, I’m on my toes |
| Get pussy on the reg', got no time for these hoes |
| Half these niggas rap comedy shows, cold blooded punks |
| Don’t wan' shoot it out, don’t wan' dump |
| I expose niggas who forty and lived through one story, doggy |
| Ain’t in the gang with me, my killers came with me |
| Watching everything shifty |
| I was trained to lay down that murder game, kick dirt on my name |
| First the flame hit your brain, aim like Saddam Hussein |
| Give it to any nigga, any terrain |
| Fuck what niggas sayin', man, I’m tryna maintain, nigga |
| Yeah, I’m tryna maintain |
| Aiyyo, since '96, came in the game, no tricks |
| '98, Violator shit with Eric Nicks |
| Rest in peace Chris, we piss glamorous conglomerate |
| Still Islam-in' it, real niggas honor it |
| I used to fuck with hoes that blow cock then they vibe with it |
| Swank wore a good belt, Lord, we on the board |
| Was raised to protect my moms |
| Deuce-deuce bust through the triple fat goose |
| Army Fatigue pants, TEC bust loose, still smoke tree plants |
| Killer on the Goose, Ray Bands |
| Vaporizing hemp |
| Sprinkle the Deutch, them shit niggas, they |
| And now my town wanna fuckin' sound like my fuckin' town though |
| I’m with that shit, that’s my shit, I’m Rambo |
| Fuck it, and I ain’t gon' tell them niggas suck my dick |
| But if they hating on this, well tell 'em, «Suck my dick» |
| It’s not a game, this is not a show |
| We do it up for the money cause it’s all we know |
| So go and tell your folks, can’t nobody stop my flow |
| Brrr, uh |
| First of all, I’m a underdog, I don’t like none of y’all |
| Winter, spring, summer, fall, I keep a gunner, dawg |
| The spirit of Guru, it ain’t something to y’all |
| Biggie Smalls, Big Pun and Big L to y’all |
| That’s everything that you lack in your lyrics |
| My flow is the results of the crack epidemic (Huh) |
| Dirty burners baby (Yeah) murder murder baby (Yeah) |
| You shooting baby powder (Yeah) you a Gerber baby |
| Nothing to fuck with, known for the thug shit |
| Street certified, hood notary republic (Am I wrong?) |
| You are now tuned into the Drama Hour |
| blammers out, dusty nines allowed |
| I’m from out of New York with gats and load |
| Guns and roses like Axel Rose (Nigga) |
| You say subliminal shit but you ain’t saying no names |
| Don’t fuck with me, I ain’t playing no games |
| Yo, yo, tremendous career, the legacy of |
| A dirty little New Yorker they want done |
| Locked in the cage, shot in the face |
| The fall from grace in this hip-hop thang |
| But music shoot through my veins |
| My target locked in my brain, and I won’t fall |
| My heart is too passionate to give y’all |
| The satisfaction to see me all |
| Broke and fucked up, all that there won’t be none of |
| Image that, it’s not happening |
| This is my dream, my dream |
| Dreams, niggas tryna take my dreams |
| It seems, you wanna poke holes |
| In my coffin and just know it’s a waste of time |
| It can’t be done |
| My shit made of titanium and you soft like pillows |
| It’s not a game, this is not a show |
| We do it up for the money cause it’s all we know |
| So go and tell your folks, can’t nobody stop my flow |