Lyrics:
even up my sleeve
A million albums sold and it's hard to believe
Well it's true homeboy, it's not a lie
I used to sell tapes on Sunnyside
I used
Yoda
A Florida, Pensacola
There's more to roll-a by Motorola
I'm in control-a, I hit the quota
I made this beat sound while
I was in Minnesots
Fuck,
Tretí track bol hit
Takto by som mohol pokračovať kým track neskončí
A oni aj tak stále povedia, že ma pretlačil refresher
(Ha)
To sú presne ti isti
yeah yeah, yeah)
Keeps the world grooving, grooving
Uh uh uh, alright, uh huh
Now if you want to step
You gotta play it by the rules
You gotta
By the time you make one I'll be on ten
Hit the studio nigga, and do it again
To the beat y'all, and it don't stop
It goes on cause I don't stop
the world grooving, grooving
Uh uh uh, alright, uh huh
Now if you want to step
You gotta play it by the rules
You gotta do what I do
When I do, what I
I needed
I hit the road on the weekends to do a show
Ain't ask for money but they
Still gave a lil' dough
Just a bunch of wild kids in the front row
'em grown and then watch 'em lead
Let me proceed, bumpin' that that Californication, by the Red Hot
Fuck around and then hit 'em with a red dot
Y'all
you off
Broad, with the cause (yeah) bitch on a mission
Keep them niggas by they nuts while you hoes be dick kissin
Missing the game, damn bitch it's
track of the album “Cantigas de Maio” (May Songs), that debuted in Santiago de Compostela (capital of Galiza) in May 10th, 1972.
Outlawed by the Fascist
yeah yeah, yeah)
Keeps the world grooving, grooving
Uh uh uh, alright, uh huh
Now if you want to step
You gotta play it by the rules
You gotta
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We Be Fucking
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One, Two, Three, Four, Five
Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, ten
Are you ready!
Další rok další album sick byl
Jsem a dál budu sick
Uplynulej rok byl sick
on hard
I be rippin them tracks
And by the time it hit the shelves
I'll be gettin' it back!
So many niggaz playa hatin'
So I'm totin a gat
Pistol grippin',
keep it started
Yeah, yeah, violater the album
Go, go, go!!
[l boogie]
This is for my mob and my thug niggas
Ruff ryder bug niggas, def jam website
Tired of these rappers, tired of these jackers
I'm tired of these dances by these fuckin' backpackers
And I'm sick of all these hipsters, I'm sick
well
We are some partying mothafuckas"
Tired of these rappers
Tired of these jackers
I'm tired of these dances
By these fucking backpackers
And I'm sick
by the CIA or the industry
Know where black hands be on black Glocks
No back stabs or sad plots, we let them rot
1-800-Nas&Hit, don't call us with
Umm, uh what the fuck, what time is it?
I swear I parked my car, shit
Aye, light hit my face sun brought the heat
Open my eyes, see my car
Rebel, renegade, must stay paid
Not by financial aid, but the break of hits
Causing me to take long trips
I'm the original, teacher of this type
Rebel, renegade, must stay paid
Not by financial aid, but a raid of hits
Causing me to take long trips
I'm the original teacher of this type of style
You said you're gonna get up off the couch
(you won't)
You said you're gonna put an album out
(you won't)
You said you're gonna go out on a limb
(you
(Wheezy outta here)
Yeah, yeah, I'm in this bitch, yeah, I'm back
Ah, ah, I hit the club on the up, you can come with the racks (uh, come with
This is a public service announcement
Sponsored by Just Blaze and the good folks at Roc-A-Fella Records
"Fellow Americans, it is with the utmost
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