lirik lagu buddha monk - it's a stick up
[intro: buddha monk (courvoisier)]
yo aiyo.. (this sh-t is rockin)
yo i think you need to address them cats out there
you heard? (understand me)
two of the best that ever done it
(real n-ggas rock steady)
the zu (and buddha monk, of course n-gga)
[courvoisier]
yo since you talk a good game, walk a good game
when it come time to bang, you the first i’ma hang
elizabethan f-ckin and f-ckin aunt taught me how to box
to throw a punch and hit the right spot
knew you had a gl-ss jaw, heard y’all broke it
opened ya mouth but wasn’t sharp enough to show it
you know it, don’t take much but about a half an ounce of pressure
respect life cuz it’s precious
time is forever, flesh is born to rot
over night knock n-ggas straight to the top
i’m in the spot where cool n-ggas tend to lose it
and free music, thank you, write then prove it
knuckle up, slug, or even go round for round
throw pound for pound, stand ground for ground
c-nt, wrapped like a swoll from a fable
better watch where you trip or you gon land on the table
[chorus x2: courvoisier]
it’s a stick up, lay on the ground
get ya face down (says who?) says this mothaf-ckin fo’ pound
you gettin b-lls? think i’m bluffin?
matter of fact, just for shootin rocks, one in ya face i’m pluggin
[buddha monk]
it’s official, this rap here, burned through the eye tissue
it’s the last rowdiest n-gga, pack the gat n-gga
my team’s scheme flow through streams of rap fiends
spread out through high beams, terrorizin rap scenes
look what we got here, i’ve faced the death, stop, look and stare
at this n-gga who’s been hungry and livin this sh-t for ten years
knowin that the sharp blade cuts through yo’ setback
counter react, ya wack raps, snap the gat back
yo ya players, ballers, pimps and all hustlers
when i’m finished throwin verses you’ll know who shot ya
it’s the master of art of war, tearin down predators
what’s the cause? sh-t, it ain’t true slang no more
[chorus x2]
[courvoisier]
aiyo n-ggas chirp about it but then ain’t ready
i’m common law with the mic so we can omit the weddin
reception, you bang everyday through ya speakers
with ya best man merkin shots of tequila
gold brown n-gga ’til i p-ss white
far from the type to push off a rhyme with a splice
grinch lung spitter, get ya winch strong
cuz spent diaphragms last long
[buddha monk]
it’s a p-ssed laws, a hydro form, a rap stella
lyrically pr-ne to transform black forms into stretchers
is this your fate? oh, you think it’s never?
know where you sleep at, eat at, you better brush ya t–th at
you better believe that, where yo weed at? you gonna need that
before me and my n-ggas see that, ya brain is where ya bleed at
yo did you peep that? it ain’t nothin to me when we meet that
it ain’t nothin to me when we meet that
[chorus x3]
[outro: courvoisier]
it’s a stick up…
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