That's that shit though
 Get the motherfuckin Squad packed
 We got to pull these shoes out like carpet  word is bond
 Test the crew with the guns and let's get this shit on

 Why  must I be like that? Why  must I pack the gat?
 On my left  niggaz be rollin with the ruckus
 Ready to get deep bust rounds upon some suckaz
 Heard PPP and LOD is a bunch of crazy motherfuckers
 Journey to the land is on
 The winner of the spittin bomb marathon
 The fuck you up lyrathon, whatever you choose
 prepare to lose that title
 Turnin vital situations suicidal, my idols, is my Uncles
 who started smokin weed outta bibles
 Gave me a puff when I bust my first rifle
 Men-estration cycles, I give bitches
 Bring your craziest nigga, I'll give stitches
 Whateva, go crew for crew, blow for blow
 Bang your headpiece and sniff the snow off your hoe
 I keep it rollin...

 Ask yourself man
 How ugly do you have to be to be a hardcore MC?
 Niggaz be fooled by my plaques and my light skin complexture
 My whole texture is bombin, destroyin da schools of the wack
 From the Land of the Lost, you get tossed
 Listen to my veloc(ity), my crew's comin off
 Yeah, more sneaky than casino switches
 Diggin ditches for all Moskino bitches
 Clockin decimal figures, I'm gettin out diggers
 Now my choice of truck is a Land
 cause a Landcruise much bigger
 It pack two to three more niggaz
 Damn I hate a golddigger
 Yeah, gimme that microphone
 I make opponents shit bricks like Tyson's home
 I keep the jacked cellular phone blown in three zones
 Love seafood and keep my nine millimis chrome
 So it can shine up your dome
 When I proceed to give you what you need and clear spots like Sea Breeze
 Wreckin your ass armaggedeon style
 Twenty four seven while
 My crew chin check your profile
 (Rollin...)

 I'm the master of disaster, super rhyme maker
 Grimy by nature, database maker
 Play em out like Sega, Saturn
 Blow your blocks in patterns for about nine acres
 Testes, crew wearin bulletproof and double S's
 Karl Kani down, camoflouge can't hide the sounds
 of a fo' pound (boo-yaa)
 Givin you Six Flags, bustin merry go rounds
 But my crew stay ill with that unreal appeal
 I be the raw water, my cheek bones outta have gills
 below like the opera
 Smooth on the trigger for all you block cockers
 I be the key to criminology
 Blast and rotate enemies at three buck sixty
 Pick me, as your Senator
 Take the dove from your battlefield son, fuck Pat Benatar
 Run, head for the hills
 Back in the day, these niggaz rolled up on me with
 the trunk filled with Bomber Brooklyns, sheeps and quartervilles
 Aiyyo take that shit, aiyyo Money snap the grill
 Body caught chills as he ate this nine mil
 Mine kills two but my nine was sign sealed
 And ready to deliver, but Money had me too close
 to reach for toast, soon as that nigga blink I broke ghost
 Dash back to South Orange Ave with dollar bill to smoke dope
 I keep em rollin...

 This is DJ SAY WHAT?? on this motherfucker
 Sayin the dick is long, but my time is short
 Before I go, just remember
 If your box ain't on FDS radio, you're fuckin up