Had It Up 2 Here

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Boot Camp Clik

Boot Camp Clik is an American hip hop supergroup from Brooklyn, New York, which is composed of Buckshot (of Black Moon), Smif-N-Wessun, also known as Cocoa Brovaz (Tek and Steele), Heltah Skeltah (Rock and Ruck, aka Sean Price), O.G.C. (Originoo Gunn Clappaz) (Starang Wondah, Top Dog, and Louieville Sluggah. All of its members are from the Brownsville section of Brooklyn as well as Buckshot who is from the Crown Heights section and Tek who is from the Bedford-Stuyvesant section. more »

Year:

2002

4:43

68 Views

Playlists:

#1

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It's going down baby!
Bucktown, Duckdown baby (whispering)
My BCC, Cocoa be'z, Top Dog (Sean Price)
Starang where you at? BDI Eye we got to this
people, Don (Louieville)
Niggaz had it up to here (Louieville)
A nigga had it up to here (Louieville)
I'm tired of fallen' (Louieville)
Slugs fallen' all day (Steele)
Feelin' this, feelin' this (Steele)

I'm in the ride right
Getting high right 
When some guy comes wit some papers for me to sign right
Aight money started acting fly 
Like I ain't shit he the one that should be in the lime light
Saying the rhyme tight 
Coming all out his face
Saying that he's better than any rapper that out right
I'm like look I care if you were dumb like
Your demo was reviewed in The Source and they gave you 9 mics
I can care less who you look like
Or who you rhyme like
Let me show what a real MC sounds like

I pulled up to the red light 
Somebody was parked on my right 
I heard them like K 
Ain't you that little nigga from Bucktown or Ducktown or whatever?
What's up with you now nigga
As a matter of fact I got some rough shit and going to love it
Make you a million boy if you f*ck with
Trust me dog my flow is grimy 
Soon as spit you dog you'll be the first to sign me
Listen your flow is all right though 
Really wasn't tight though
You're kind of loose with eight bite flows
Got me like whoa!
Let me keep it moving or my shottie might blow
Spittin' but you bullshit me yo
I can't hear your ill sub-libs
You ain't gotta feel boot camp to fill some tins
But you will respect the 4th Star
Or I'm spit 4 at your sports car
When you spit bar listen par
You better respect or I'ma have the check
Let the loan half of the check got yet hum
Who was it 'cause only stopped I cause I thought knew who it was
Now move up

I had it up to here with why y'all weak ass rappers
DJ's CEOs I want why y'all to know 
I had it up to here with why y'all hundred grand producers
Fake ass thugs, dress codes in clubs
I had it up to here with why y'all PDRs 
Racist cops cheeba holders don't me start
I had it up to here with why y'all wannabe stars
Trying to be who you ain't just be who you are, man

Who you think your talking be
Get your head bust to the white meat, questioning me
Won't play cause I won't pay what you think I'm a bitch
Never tell who shot you what think I'm a snitch
But I will the order for them to smack you up
Clap you up, yo money lone we snatch you up
Think you hide where, I got family over there and they all think like me
We had it up to here

Ayo, I was a broke working nigga
This rap got me money 
I had bitches; my good looks kept the honies
But in the game niggaz with real money 
They steal from me, when you mention my name
I changed the real money 
In the game after a few years
I'm still hungry, put the band back together
Its bout get real ugly yo
I crush plenty guys, I had plenty wives
I'm on old school tapes I'm only twenty-five
Niggaz would doubt me, bitches talk about me
They both wouldn't be shit without me
Starang One

Yes, Yes why y'all
Why y'all know niggaz ready to brawl why y'all
Hit the floor why y'all
The 4-pound leaving all why y'all wasted
The gun powder can you taste it 
The Big Khahuna ready to ride up in your place, bitch
Can you feel me?
These bitch niggaz trying to kill 
No what they do to me, to try to fool me see
D.O. stay sharp and on top of my game
Spittin' my flames, so don't throw dirt on my name
I'm trying to hold lot of thing and make a whole lot of cream
All the plots and the schemes got me doing wicked things

Shoot your moms, stab your pops, rape your daughter
Get the moment on the tape recorder
Give copies out to every nigga up in the hood 
Let them know I'm not the nigga to f*ck with up in the hood
Give me some weed, give some coke, give me some dope
Give your seed; give me your throat, give me some rope
Choking your bitch provoking your click
To get guns, smoking a spliff
You're throwing a fit, now that's fun 
Backpack niggaz acting all funny and shit
Till I them that shit is wack they're no money in this

And you female rappers I'm end your careers 
Rap my hands around your throat while you get banged from the rear
I'm the type of nigga that will throw a shell in your arm
You the type to snitch, bitch 
Why you telling my moms listen
Why y'all bitch niggaz are bout as wack as come
Don't make me clap you in the back of the ass when I'm done

We pack 10 billion, 987 million, 654 thousand
321 hundred fans in housing know how we get down and
What this shit about The Boot Camp sounding it's astounding 
But I'm tried of it, questioning why y'all budget 
I want to snuff but I look him and be like ah f*ck it
But now I ride wit it when I blow I slide wit it 
All I know I'm Boot Camp and are niggaz

Now a days I had it up to here (Louieville)

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