Nineteen ninety mother fuckin six   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