Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Rollin, artist - Kali FamDate of issue: 03.04.2005
Song language: English
Rollin |
| Nineteen ninety mother fuckin six |
| Pack that shit up |
| Get the motherfuckin Squad packed |
| We got to pull these shoes out like carpet, word is bond |
| Test the crew with the guns and let’s get this shit on |
| Whyyyyy must I be like that? |
| Whyyyyy must I pack the gat? |
| All my loud, niggas be rollin with the ruckus |
| Ready to get deep bust rounds upon some suckaz |
| Heard P.P.P. |
| and L.O.D. |
| is a bunch of crazy motherfuckers |
| Journey to the land is on |
| The winner of the spittin bomb marathon |
| The fuck you up lyrathon, whatever you choose |
| Prepare to lose that title |
| Turn a vital situations suicidal, my idols, is my Uncles |
| Who started smokin weed outta bibles |
| Gave me a puff when I bust my first rifle |
| Men-estration cycles, I give bitches |
| Bring your craziest nigga, I’ll give stitches |
| Whateva, go crew for crew, blow for blow |
| Bang your headpiece and sniff the snow off your ho |
| I keep it rollin… |
| I kick a hole in the speaker, pull the plug, then I jet |
| How ugly do you have to be to be a hardcore MC? |
| Niggas be fooled by my plaques and my light skin complexture |
| My whole texture is bombin, destroyin da schools of the wack |
| From the Land of the Lost, you get tossed |
| Listen to my veloc (ity), my crew’s comin off |
| Yeah, more sneaky than casino switches |
| Diggin ditches for all Moskino bitches |
| Clockin decimal figures, I’m gettin out diggers |
| Now my choice of truck is a Land |
| Cause a Landcruise much bigger |
| It pack two to three more niggas |
| Damn I hate a golddigger |
| Yeah, gimme that microphone |
| I make opponents shit bricks like Tyson’s home |
| I keep the jacked cellular phone blown in three zones |
| Love seafood and keep my nine millimis chrome |
| So it can shine up your dome |
| When I proceed to give you what you need and clear spots like Sea Breeze |
| Wreckin your ass armaggedeon style |
| Twenty four seven while |
| My crew chin check your profile |
| (Rollin…) |
| I kick a hole in the speaker, pull the plug, then I jet |
| I’m the master of disaster, super rhyme maker |
| Grimy by nature, database maker |
| Play em out like Sega, Saturn |
| Blow your blocks in patterns for about nine acres |
| Testes, crew wearin bulletproof and double S’s |
| Karl Kani down, camoflouge can’t hide the sounds |
| Of a fo' pound (boo-yaa) |
| Givin you Six Flags, bustin merry go rounds |
| But my crew stay ill with that unreal appeal |
| I be the raw water, my cheek bones outta have gills |
| Below like the opera |
| Smooth on the trigger for all you block cockers |
| I be the key to criminology |
| Blast and rotate enemies at three buck sixty |
| Pick me, as your Senator |
| Take the love from your battlefield son, fuck Pat Benatar |
| Run, head for the hills |
| Back in the day, these niggas rolled up on me with |
| The trunk filled with Bomber Brooklyns, sheeps and quartervilles |
| Aiyyo take that shit, aiyyo Money snap the grill |
| Body caught chills as he ate this nine mil |
| Mine kills two but my nine was sign sealed |
| And ready to deliver, but Money had me too close |
| To reach for toast, soon as that nigga blink I broke ghost |
| Dash back to South Orange Ave with dollar bill to smoke dope |
| I keep em rollin… |
| This is DJ SAY WHAT? |
| on this motherfucker |
| Sayin the dick is long, but my time is short |
| Before I go, just remember |
| If your box ain’t on FDS radio, you’re fuckin up |