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Correct Digi Electronics Lyrics
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Artists: R
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RZA
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Correct Digi Electronics
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(feat. Doc Doom, Force md's, Freemurder, Madam Scheez, Shyheim, Timbo King) [Intro: rza] Come on, come on Yo, ye-yeah, ye-yeah Where Ya At? Where Ya At? Takin' it back to 1982 Runnin' Brownsville as we bring you (Where Ya At? Where Ya At?) That phat old school shit The best of the troup could find Boodoodoodoodoo! Yo yo [Chorus: Force md's] My crew is super duper fly and we came to get pai-aid We pack those glocks and razor blades, duckin' spa-a-a-ades Rollin' that sticky chocolate thai, we 'bout to get bla-a-azed Y'all cats can't play with us, it's not a ga-a-a-a-ame [Chorus - last two lines] [Rza] Roll up the Winchester, pull my whites, that's the poindexter Tell him bring back the black iron Mac strapped with two extra Clips was a natural, worms in the Big Apple Potholes in the street crack the Benz axle Well let me come and descend my mens at you You can't just catch this fish Jack mackarel B-O-B boy, fast like Bruce Lee-roy Caramel sundae honey set the decoy For you soldiers seekin' to de-stroy Me, what the fuck you think we got the heat for? You dunns, we knock out your gold fronts Shorty got bigger and strong once she start smokin' blunts With beef they get found in Hunt's There's no chance to score, your best bet's to punt [Chorus:] [Doc Doom] I know R&B niggaz that's harder than you Young T. G. 's with more street smarts than you Hit liq', shit you ain't got the heart to do And I bet the click you run with they bustas too Fuck a pass, we come strapped when we passin' through All types of straps, you get clapped just for actin' new Collectin' more guns ever since my cash done grew Bad ass with no dash so I'm a bastard too Ask your crew, nigga, I gay-bash 'em too Grab his strap then ski-mask and bash 'em too [Madam Scheez] West Cost rider, credit card slider Roll up the windows and pass the lighter I done turned into a lover, used to be a fighter Now I pull out my guns and take 'em out one by one You're a beautiful bitch, sittin' on pins and needles I done seen bitches emotions breakin' up like The Beatles Who's the real bitch now? Seen the fear in yo' tears Now Tyrone folks is talkin', shut the fuck up here A product of my environment until my retirement Have a habit of the automatic breakin' up the static And if y'all niggaz wanna trip y'all can suck my dick I got eight or nine of 'em, different colors and shit [Chorus:] [Timbo King] Smell like the rain forest, got diamonds in the hood - flawless Sable Taurus, spit a verse, no chorus You're on the wrong turf, one of my songs worth Two mil', eh-yo, red pill, blue pill Still stay focused, off-white lotus, brokers I'ma dead y'all slot time, no spins on the hot nine Eh-yo, my hot nine got my whole block sign I rhyme gangsta, pops was an O. G. I'm a junior, my son'll be the third Let 'em learn degrees, the bees and the birds (uh-huh) Let 'em learn degrees, the bees and the birds [Shyheim] Why you actin' cuckoo like you just flew over nest? Like I give a fuck how much weight you bench Shyheim, my government and my attributes Big left me the Tec and the nine at my crib, so Gimme the Loot Or L. B. C. Ya like Snoop, I'm out to get coof, again coof Turn up the thermostat, peep the murder rap 'Bout to bring it back, in the name of crack In the name of dope Ridin' through the hood in the Diamondback with spokes In the name of thai, cliches and skunk I came to get high, came to get drunk I came with the Tec, Bobby came with the pump We left with the shines, left with two dimes Sittin' on dubs, royal flush, five of a kind Countin' the spare for the deuce-ooh-ooh-one Nigga, our year, niggaz, our year [Freemurder] Yeah, yeah, yeah Yo, talkin' all drunk, makin' a rap right here Fool remainders, like he can't get clapped right here Fuck the walkin', Freemurder pack right here On some napalm and bamboo track right there Fuck twenty-five, shit, I'm strapped to the chair Cuffie Crime Fam', my fifth black in the air Y'all don't want none, lead ya back down the stairs Once the Mac appear Four heat, I ain't hit 'I'm, shoot back fire wit 'I'm Whole empire wit 'I'm, never plea guilty, I ain't hit 'I'm Guess who lyin' wit 'I'm Left po', ya dead broke like Holy's ear when Tyson bit 'I'm Still on point like lime segment Pull out joints, the nine wet men Double action, don't want no trouble, askin' "Who I be?", Murder like Tai Chi Get ya brain tilt New Yorker, Brooklyn is where he come from
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