N.Y.C. Everything

RZA

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RZA

Robert Fitzgerald Diggs (born July 5, 1969), better known by his stage name Rza ( /ˈrɪzə/ RIZ-ə; usually styled RZA), is an American Grammy-winning music producer, multi-instrumentalist, author, emcee, and occasional actor, director, and screenwriter. A prominent figure in hip hop, Rza is the de facto leader of the Wu-Tang Clan. He has produced almost all of Wu-Tang Clan's albums as well as many Wu-Tang solo and affiliate projects. He has also released solo albums under the alter-ego Bobby Digital, along with executive producing credits for side projects. In addition to the Wu-Tang Clan and his solo releases, Rza was also a founding member of the horrorcore Hip Hop group Gravediggaz where he used the name The Rzarector. Furthermore, he has acted in several mo… more »


Year:
1998
4:17
130 
#1

 Become A Better Singer In Only 30 Days, With Easy Video Lessons!

Yo, yo, yo 
From the heart of Medina to the head of Fort Greene 
Now I see everything 
Niggas who sling 
Shaolin' cats thrown inside a bing 
Bobby Digital got the golden seal sting 
Rhyme star, I write a hundred thousand dollar bar 
My pinstripe comma deletes your power bar 
Dr. Octopus tentacles same as different song 
Bob Digital instrumental; nothing's identical 
You biter, non-writer, Mr. Potato Head or Ida 
Deep-fried crinkle cut; one nickel-cup fucked your whole LP up 
You must be stupid, you liar 
I'm the purifier, live wire, hip-hop reviver 
A suicide mission you're committin'
Go against the Wu-Tang henchmen 
Perfect precision marksman
Spit darts and flip charts, and
Archery shots aimed at your heart then 
Daffy Duckest will still bring da motherfuckin' ruckus 
Project Killa Hill be the buckest 
Smoke blunts, drink Bud Light beer wit' Buzz Light-year 
Wet from here to infinity for them white hair 
Bobby Digital, overthrow your whole citadel 
Mista pitiful, your whole shrap stack is despicable 
Undernourished, your shit cannot flourish 
Cherish every moment of his love before you perish 
Bitch, chicka, chicka, chick, watch me switch 
Lookin' for a bird I can hitch into your atmosphere 
Take your pussy out like a pap smear 
Make you smile, at the same time crack a tear 
Smack ya rear, vagina saliva, Trojan wear, rough rider 
Up inside ya, dick apple head opens up your clit wider 
Taste the apple cider, you become strong then become a prider 
(Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Digi, Digi, Digi) 
Stuck to your ass like a Victoria's Secret wedgie 
Heart of Medina to the head of Fort Greene 
Now I see everything is N.Y.C. Everything
Niggas who sling
Shaolin cats thrown inside the bing 
Bobby Digital got the killa bee sting 
From the heart of Medina to the top of Fort Green 
Now I Everything
Niggas who sling 
Shaolin' cats is thrown inside the bing 
Bobby Digital got the killa bee sting 

Drink a Heineken, as we go inside the mind again 
Nevermindin' men droppin' gem - can he shine again?
Most definite; let this be my last will and testament 
For the pessimist, exercise for the Exorcist 
Johnny Treacherous, like Three, I'm supposed to be 
Perpetuous, decimate the poetry 'cause everything is close to me 
The lecherous Jonathon, king of the seven seas, battle wit' Leviathan 
The Methodist, poly to your deficit; hit it up 
If I can't live it up, somebody gotta give it up 
John J., blow 'em out the water, adopt the Bombay 
Your bitch look like Stronjay, rubbin' me the wrong way 
Burn one and sauté, bringin' you different ways to sword play 
They bustin' bullets over broadway, Deep Cover 
I'm like Larry when the fish burn; I burn rubber 
'Cause I'm not an easy lover 
To the midnight, butt naked wit' a knife 
Ask my alien likes - I've been crazy all my life 
Hard time homicide, time flies, do or die 
Crooked ass and crooked eye, scripture from the dark side 
Johnny Five, I reside in the killa bee hive
Only the strong gon' survive 
From the depths of the killa to the top, we're now born 
Wildin' on Staten Island be the poet John John 
Can't forget Bobby; if I did, I'd feel gyp
Like my sandwich, ain't a sandwich without Miracle Whip 
From the depths of the killa to the top, we're now born 
Wildin' on Staten Island be the poet John John 
Can't forget Digi; if I did, I'd feel gyp 
Like my sandwich ain't a sandwich without Miracle Whip

 Become A Better Singer In Only 30 Days, With Easy Video Lessons!

Written by: CLIFFORD SMITH, ROBERT F. DIGGS

Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind

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