Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Legendary Street Team, artist - Kool G Rap. Date of issue: 31.12.2001
Song language: English
Legendary Street Team |
| Hey yo we bringin you the international vibe live from Brownsville |
| Where we juggle and struggle to survive (YOU KNOW THE DEAL) |
| We rhyme, from 12 to 12, schemin |
| In the cut on the corner by the bodega with the hammer steamin |
| Friend, forgive him for his sins (he better watch his step) |
| Mentally I’m home alone, and since you’re deaf |
| 99.9 of the times I’ve got my mojo |
| Buka-bup-bup-bup-bup-bup-bup-CLAK like whoa! |
| Aiyyo I bring sorrow, you won’t make it to tomorrow |
| Flames spit from the nozzle, pop one up in your furrow |
| (STREET TEAM) East coast up, toast up |
| We don’t put posters up, we post up |
| I’mma front line nigga, you don’t want mine nigga |
| Play tough — and I fuck your shape up BUK |
| You have a wheelchair chaffeur with your arms in slings |
| Both legs numb from them arms an' tings |
| It’s the legendary street team! |
| Kool G. Rap’s (BACK!) |
| Fizzy Womack’s (BACK!) |
| Billy Danze (AWW DAMN!) |
| That’s how we do it in the ghetto |
| Spit fire from the heavy metal (WHERE YOU AT?) |
| Aiyyo — my attributes of life, never too nice, the rules are too trife |
| You lose life, hit for blue ice, dead over two dice |
| My ape click, potty chips, body shit |
| Shotties click on you stick you like Poli-Grip |
| One false move and your body ripped, niggas lay in they lobbies hit |
| Kickback of my gun is like a karate flick, Gotti shit |
| Mothers and hotties hit, we stash cash sellin dope’n |
| Cops on the rooftop be telescopin, be tryin to bust your melon open |
| Gates of heaven is closed, hell is open, shells are smokin |
| Robots, yellow tape from four shots |
| Murder plot door knocks, heads drop inside of co-ops |
| Get buried in corn crops, with tall tops |
| Hammers drop, magnums pop, you get spotted |
| On some six o’clock shit on your Magnavox |
| Taggin your knot, stab a lot, with ice pick shit, Obituary RIP shit |
| Iller than Pillsbury with the biscuits |
| Hey yo we step up in the club, in a disrespectful manner |
| Stomp through the crowd wavin the M.O.P. |
| banner |
| Keep fresh coppertops, in the player hater scanner |
| Who am I? |
| (WILLIAM DANZE) Right, then you don’t wanna know the man |
| (OHH!) The hooded soldier, one should never overlook |
| In posession of eternal life as a crook |
| It been written in the books, embedded in the streets |
| Yeah, pushed out of crack spots |
| And bumped out of jeeps! |
| I’m from a place where cats look conspicuously raw |
| Fitzroy, P-Noid, stickin to his arms |
| Catch you at a pay phone, kickin it to moms |
| Lift your +Face/Off+ like Nicholas and John |
| (WAVE YOUR FLAG PARTNER!) put a hole where you thin |
| (BAM BAM!) Pop a hole in your mink hat |
| Brownsville motherfucker it’s so true |
| Put that ass in a three-piece suit with no shoes |
| Y’all niggas act like y’all know |
| First Family, Black Guerilla Family, united, y’know? |
| It’s a Queens and B’Ville thing, word up |
| Y’all niggas come scrap witcha’ll heat |
| Or get laid the fuck down, word up, no games |
| Y’all niggas know |
| Bitch-ass niggas |