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 |