Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Brooklyn Babies, artist - RZA. Album song Digital Bullet, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 27.08.2001
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: In The Paint
Song language: English
Brooklyn Babies |
| Bobby, I’m tired of yo' shit, nigga! |
| I’m tired of you comin' in at 3 o’clock in the fuckin' mornin' |
| Nigga, you got a fuckin' family here |
| You act like you don’t fuckin' know that shit |
| Nigga, what the fuck? |
| Born up in Kings County |
| Digital, these niggas should be crazy |
| Growin' up as a Brooklyn baby |
| This how, this is my life. |
| Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo |
| Yo, yo, yo, yo, YO |
| A Brooklyn baby, I was born up in King’s County |
| Inside the womb seven months before the Queen found me |
| Up in wroughty Brownsville with fiends around me |
| Now roam gat in Staten with Cream Team around me |
| They called me Bobby, Cousin Billy got the black Harley |
| Taught his son how to snipe cats like Lee Harvey |
| Oswald, all’s well that ends well |
| My big brother Divine, he pushed the Benz well |
| I got the cherry Range, known for rockin' heavy chains |
| I’m from the tribe of men who would bury Kings |
| On the back of the A-train, my daydream |
| Should I make a phat hit or should I take CREAM? |
| From the Clan that taught you cats Cash Rules |
| I make slow grind tracks, you grab ass too |
| Give respect to the Prince when he pass through |
| Might have a chocolate deluxe in a glass shoe |
| Cousin Billy, known to strap the black uzi |
| Shoot you in front of the Jakes like Jack Ruby |
| Live on TV where you see B-O-B-B-Y |
| D-I-G-I-T-A-L (A-L!), things ain’t too well |
| Digital, these niggas should be crazy |
| Growin' up as a Brooklyn baby |
| This is how I live my life. |
| Yeah. |
| Peace Lafyetee, Stuyvessant, Malcolm X |
| Shot dice on green, we live from Pulaski y’all |
| It’s Fred Glassy, zig-zag-zig through traffic |
| Get the herb, get the God, peace Ra' |
| What’s the word on things? |
| Through the phone I heard the bangin' sounds |
| In the background, layin' down |
| I’m spittin' what the people missin' |
| We extreme with the murder type theme |
| Don’t sleep, get ya head split to the white meat |
| Big guns, down South we blaze |
| Shippin' bodies back up North, it’s the Weston |
| Wild Texan, no trespassin' |
| Long mics hit the dead arm |
| Planet Earth, home of Islam |
| Brooklyn, I was physically born, clothes torn |
| Rough tacklin' the streets, Allah Math' spin techniques |
| We bring heat to the block party, drinkin' Bacardi |
| Baggin' shorties for the homies who ain’t here |
| Bobby, that’s right, you ain’t shit, nigga |
| You ain’t shit, but a big dick and a mothafuckin' cheque |
| All that fuckin' Brooklyn shit, Shaolin shit |
| Nigga, grow the fuck up! |
| What the fuck is up with you, nigga? |
| You ain’t shit, nigga |
| Comin' in high off that shit |
| What the fuck? |
| I’m tired of yo' shit |
| What the fuck is that shit anyway? |
| What the fuck? |
| And your cousin Billy, I’m sick of that mothafucka |
| That mothafucka could never come up in this |
| Mothafuckin' house ever again |
| He’s a criminal mothafuckin' gangsta, see that shit? |
| A criminal, I’m sick of that shit |
| I’m sick of yo' shit, Bobby |
| Brooklyn this, Shaolin that |
| What the fuck, nigga? |
| I don’t know why I love your stupid ass anyway |
| Pssh. |
| but I do love you Bobby |