Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Streets Is Callin', artist - Pete Rock. Album song My Own Worst Enemy, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 04.10.2018
Record label: Fat Beats
Song language: English
Streets Is Callin' |
| Yeah, Edo. |
| G, nigga |
| Uh, Diamond D, nigga |
| Jaysaun, nigga |
| Yeah. |
| what! |
| Yo |
| I spit the factuals, planned out tactical to capture you |
| No preservatives, additives, all natural |
| I’m too practical, makin hits don’t tacker you |
| Ball in TWO eras, like Shaq or Bob McAdoo |
| The 80s' showed us what the guns and crack’ll do |
| Shackle you, you movin forward or you standing still |
| The look of hate, we try to avoid |
| Cause it’s easily annoyed when it’s hungry or unemployed |
| Before my team gets deployed, and shit gets destroyed |
| Life is not to be lost, it’s to be enjoyed |
| When lights flash off, ideas get passed off |
| You either doin nothing or you workin your ass off |
| There ain’t no in-between, when you intervene |
| Especially when you in the Bean, get blown to smithereens |
| You ain’t gotta agree or okay it |
| Disagree with what I say, but respect my right to say it mother- |
| (Edo.G) |
| If you listen real close, my nigga, you gon' hear the streets callin (callin) |
| While you stuck in that 9-to-5, we chillin overseas toruin (we tourin) |
| You swear that you rock the spot but, son, your stage show’s boring (boring) |
| The answering machine is full so tell these hoes stop callin (stop callin) |
| When the four-fifths lift, it’ll shift all your back discs |
| Iron wrist style with a swift spinnin back fist |
| Knock you off your axis, we do this just for practice |
| Maybe just to keep the skills sharper than the cactus |
| We don’t fear none, never shotta fear one |
| Walk through the city, torch your hood with a flare gun |
| In LA, sip Parrot Bay and Lime Rickey |
| Rock Chuckers and crisp Dickies, grinnin and sportin big hickeys |
| Diamond D, Jaysaun, and Edo. |
| G |
| Swiss cheese you with the chrome max for snitchin on them phone taps |
| Organized crime, we buggin on your landlines |
| It’s us who booby-trapped your tour bus with the landmines |
| We ride in Mass plates in Celtics jerseys |
| Assassinatin rappers from Cali to the Tri-State |
| You in a deep sleep, physique street sweeped |
| In your Jeep, slumped over in them burgandy seats |
| We gon' miss you |
| Yo, now when the bulls come runnin, I’ma plead the fifth |
| Screamin out the sunroof like, «Eat a dick!» |
| You can find me at the Four Seasons beatin a chick |
| And I’m old school, I still smoke weed in the flicks |
| So what the fuck y’all want from me? |
| I don’t play those games son, nobody gotta front for me |
| You a girly man, couldn’t do a 1-to-3 |
| And you’ll get it in the back if you run from me |
| Exqui-zy, I’ma raise the stakes |
| I got 'em in the kitchen butt naked, whippin up eggs and steaks |
| And if I, let off two shots, your legs’ll break |
| Get my hands on the pipe, give your man a white |
| Niggas heavy on the lactose and light on the raw |
| And you feel like a man when you fightin your whore |
| Gave me a funny look and landed right on the floor |
| And you can still see the knuckle prints right on your jaw |