Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Roc Reunion, artist - Young Chris. Date of issue: 01.09.2013
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Roc Reunion |
| Guess who’s back, motherfuckers?! |
| Out with the old, in with the new |
| So, just when I thought I was out… |
| They pull me back in! |
| It’s the Roc, you bastards! |
| Let’s take it back to the street… |
| (Benji style, Benji style, Benji style…) |
| Look at these fuckin' guys |
| They’re not hungry anymore |
| They’re sloppy |
| The way they think, the way they move |
| Remember me, man? |
| Pain In Da Ass from the Roc? |
| Okay, we’re reloaded! |
| Freeway! |
| Best spitter, rapper — I’m a bitter animal |
| Rock icy charms, bear arms that’s mechanical |
| Burnt down booths, burnt beats, they all flammable |
| It’s the return of the Roc, bitch |
| The Loch Ness Monster of rap |
| Still here after a decade (I'm here) |
| You sick of all this bullshit rap? |
| Here’s your antidote |
| Flame things, we the A-Team, no Hannibal |
| Jay-Z my nigga, kill a nigga over camel toes |
| Bitch, you say it’s a Ace of Spades, I’ll break your legs |
| Hit you with the sawed-off, gettin' ate |
| You’ll make the news |
| I’m willin' to break out the Uz to get the pay |
| And wake up on these niggas to make my day, and make 'em move |
| Right to the East, and I represent for the East Coast |
| If we go to work, I got.44s in each holster |
| Furthermore, the.44 revolver’ll put you under more |
| You dyke bitches one-sided |
| This ain’t no tug of war |
| Naw! |
| (You gotta look at a guy’s eyes next to you) |
| (You're gonna see a guy who’s willing to sacrifice his life for the good of |
| this squad) |
| (That's what loyalty’s about — that’s what Roc-A-Fella's about) |
| (That's all it’s ever been, gentlemen…) |
| Big watch, heavy chain, stones whiter than cocaine |
| Chyeah they all lames, gassed up off propane |
| No indirect, we come straight at your neck |
| Like them GD boys, we demanding the check |
| I’m a man of respect |
| Before I met ya, I never knew ya |
| It’s all up in this, everything goes on a ruler |
| Whips for my chicks, bag of guns for my shooters |
| And I be blowin' Buddha, sippin' slushies in Bermuda |
| I’m a D-Boy, rap is just my decoy |
| Homie, you ain’t sure enough or cut up like Bruce Lee, boy |
| George Jetson, to your lil' youngins you just Elroy |
| Y’all playin' with water guns, we playin' with real toys |
| Clips that clear the mall out, make the love back down |
| Ts with your picture on it, roses in the background |
| Turn out your lights, no Teddy P. you come through Nicetown |
| Where your fake friends come around when the price down |
| Alright, clown? |
| (Times have changed — where’s all the gangsters at?) |
| (Now all I see is skinny jeans and dancers, I don’t dance) |
| (But some shit never changes, like the Roc) |
| Dark Rays, Marc J’s, my nigga with a tall K |
| From Killadelph to Marcy, with Jigga at the Barclay |
| We kill them niggas easy |
| Like «fuck, I had a hard day» |
| We walk up, not far away, we shoot right through that hard clay |
| Bullets like Brady, ya vest can’t help ya |
| I form you gon' catch everything, West welcome |
| Salsa dancin' on this shit, Victor Cruz |
| Ridin' with the chopper like I ain’t got shit to lose |
| I’m a make the first page, every channel, peep the news |
| Neef pull out a bag of straps, let our shooters pick and choose |
| I’m a lively nigga’s child, boy, you niggas dead (I tell ya) |
| But a heavy award on niggas' heads |
| Kill 'em quicker than cancer, don’t fuck with a nigga bread |
| It’s the Roc, you bastards, a classic, you niggas scared? |
| Third time’s a charm, they say three strikes you out |
| Well I rumble, I’ll fight again, I will Marquez a bout |
| (See, you missin' what we had) |
| (We stay on the streets) |
| (And you can forget about the glitz and the glamour, cause they don’t mean shit) |
| (Real hustlers stay on their grind) |
| (No matter how much you have, you can always use more) |
| I’m a, street nigga, real coke flipper |
| I got some freaks that’ll deep-throat niggas |
| Bullets that’ll hit ya, sittin' in that brick house |
| Or, niggas’ll catch you slippin', comin' out your bitch house |
| Or, goin' to the store for that early-morning Dutch |
| Hop out the cut with the mack like «what up?» |
| If you ever disrespect us, talkin' all reckless |
| You ain’t never make enough money for you to check us |
| Them boys back at it, white sheets for the static |
| Yellow tape’s for the scene,.45 mixed from the 'matic |
| So trust me, you don’t want nothin', homie |
| I put this thing back together, no instructions, homie |
| And then I’m in the club, bottle sippin', model gettin', hater dissin' |
| You niggas ain’t heard me when I said it, ain’t no competition |
| It’s the Roc — ain’t nothin' stopped |
| I still’ll set up shop on any block |
| Motherfucker! |
| (Here at the Roc, we use words like familia, hood, and honor) |
| (We use these as a backbone of a life meant defending something) |
| (You use it as a punch line) |
| (I suggest you pick up a mic) |
| Tippin' strippers, lickin' pictures with niggas that should’ve been dead |
| They said «Crack, we respect the fact that you in here» |
| Blowin' hoop smoke, thick like a Newport |
| Life too short, good to see some old friends here |
| PA and BK, back up in the CH |
| A-N-G, somebody call up the DA |
| Pedro C, you know me, we with Philippe |
| Between him and Ceeto, that work be finito |
| Wide by the ego, get hit in the causeway |
| One thing I learned from Jay is to do it my way |
| The sweetest taboo, bitch, you look like Shaday |
| Forehead big, and that ass Louis Thunder |
| Tryin' eat, so, I’m a see my brother for an entrée |
| Memphis Bleek know, he can call on his Property compadres |
| What they say out in the A? |
| They’re my partners now |
| Remember them Roc-A-Fella days? |
| We was wildin' then |
| It’s the Roc, motherfuckers! |
| Snitch that! |
| Twenty years deep in this game |
| We make history on a daily basis |
| The reign is never over |
| It’s only just begun |