| Bobby, I’m tired of yo' shit, nigga!
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| I’m tired of you comin' in at 3 o’clock in the fuckin' mornin'
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| Nigga, you got a fuckin' family here
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| You act like you don’t fuckin' know that shit
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| Nigga, what the fuck?
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| Born up in Kings County
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| Digital, these niggas should be crazy
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| Growin' up as a Brooklyn baby
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| This how, this is my life.
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| Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo
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| Yo, yo, yo, yo, YO
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| A Brooklyn baby, I was born up in King’s County
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| Inside the womb seven months before the Queen found me
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| Up in wroughty Brownsville with fiends around me
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| Now roam gat in Staten with Cream Team around me
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| They called me Bobby, Cousin Billy got the black Harley
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| Taught his son how to snipe cats like Lee Harvey
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| Oswald, all’s well that ends well
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| My big brother Divine, he pushed the Benz well
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| I got the cherry Range, known for rockin' heavy chains
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| I’m from the tribe of men who would bury Kings
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| On the back of the A-train, my daydream
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| Should I make a phat hit or should I take CREAM?
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| From the Clan that taught you cats Cash Rules
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| I make slow grind tracks, you grab ass too
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| Give respect to the Prince when he pass through
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| Might have a chocolate deluxe in a glass shoe
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| Cousin Billy, known to strap the black uzi
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| Shoot you in front of the Jakes like Jack Ruby
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| Live on TV where you see B-O-B-B-Y
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| D-I-G-I-T-A-L (A-L!), things ain’t too well
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| Digital, these niggas should be crazy
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| Growin' up as a Brooklyn baby
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| This is how I live my life.
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| Yeah.
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| Peace Lafyetee, Stuyvessant, Malcolm X
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| Shot dice on green, we live from Pulaski y’all
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| It’s Fred Glassy, zig-zag-zig through traffic
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| Get the herb, get the God, peace Ra'
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| What’s the word on things?
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| Through the phone I heard the bangin' sounds
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| In the background, layin' down
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| I’m spittin' what the people missin'
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| We extreme with the murder type theme
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| Don’t sleep, get ya head split to the white meat
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| Big guns, down South we blaze
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| Shippin' bodies back up North, it’s the Weston
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| Wild Texan, no trespassin'
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| Long mics hit the dead arm
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| Planet Earth, home of Islam
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| Brooklyn, I was physically born, clothes torn
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| Rough tacklin' the streets, Allah Math' spin techniques
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| We bring heat to the block party, drinkin' Bacardi
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| Baggin' shorties for the homies who ain’t here
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| Bobby, that’s right, you ain’t shit, nigga
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| You ain’t shit, but a big dick and a mothafuckin' cheque
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| All that fuckin' Brooklyn shit, Shaolin shit
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| Nigga, grow the fuck up!
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| What the fuck is up with you, nigga?
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| You ain’t shit, nigga
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| Comin' in high off that shit
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| What the fuck?
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| I’m tired of yo' shit
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| What the fuck is that shit anyway?
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| What the fuck?
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| And your cousin Billy, I’m sick of that mothafucka
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| That mothafucka could never come up in this
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| Mothafuckin' house ever again
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| He’s a criminal mothafuckin' gangsta, see that shit?
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| A criminal, I’m sick of that shit
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| I’m sick of yo' shit, Bobby
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| Brooklyn this, Shaolin that
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| What the fuck, nigga?
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| I don’t know why I love your stupid ass anyway
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| Pssh. |
| but I do love you Bobby |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Brooklyn Babies , by - RZA. Song from the album Digital Bullet, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп