Rock Ya Body
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Aw! Cool & Dre I was the one who believed in you! Hahahaha [Chorus:] I got one bad chick, she by my side About two more wait-in outside Pull out the red carpet walk past the line Pass the keys, tell 'em please valet my ride And just, rock ya body body, rock ya body body Rock, ya body body, rock ya body Just rock, who the f*ck you know like Cook? Kill a nigga on a verse, make 'em dance on a hook, now Joey C, C-Murder like five-oh-fo' Better have my money 'cause I knock on do's Better yet I leave 17 peepholes, squeeze with the eagle Bet I murder like five-oh-fo'. Crack, yes! You gon' need protection This dude mad nice with the Smith & Wesson You know, automatic, stick shift revolver Find me in the attic, long dist' the target After that, do the walk-through like phone booths What'chu gon' do when them dudes run up on you and Rock ya body body, catch somebody Gon' park, the black Denali, watch his body Just drop, yeah I'm street like that Pull off the Benny Blanco, yeah it beez like that Your whole crew boomerang, they ain't G's like that 'Cause when it's time to shoot they quick to point the heat right back Nigga [Chorus] Yo, if Suge rapped how hard would it be But he don't, so the closest thing you got is me Ain't no damn near a rapper this loc' as me Cook Coke on top is how it's 'sposed to be, nigga! Yeah the Bronx is back It's my niggaz Cool & Dre on this monster track (What they do Fat?) Yeah we been on some Don shit Been stompin' niggaz unconscious Been sendin' niggaz to trauma; I bet now you wish The only beef that you had is wit'cha baby's momma You best to wear your vest as a doo-rag 'Cause I'ma headbussa, you don't want me to do dat Yeah I need a new muh'fucker to shoot at More Bin Laden talk, disappearin' like Pookie from "New Jack" Said it, yeah it's all out war So do your jumpin' jacks nigga, make you hit the floor [Chorus] Yes, please believe she gorgeous And she ain't gon' leave once she see the fortress The blood red G-T'll leave ya nauseous And as for the wife, mami please, we're bosses Crenshaw, you can find me on the strip Black Ferrari, nine milli' on the hip You in South Beach, wet willies on the strip Shit, I'm in Dade County, smokin' phillies, bumpin' Trick nigga New York y'all know what it is! Got a hundred guns, got a hundred clips Niggaz never listen 'til they vision turn bitch Pawn you out of Vegas butt-naked in a ditch (That's right) By now you can see that I'm global Slappin MC's for the dreams that they sold you And all the false prophecies of niggaz takin' shots at me Find yourself hangin' from your feet off the balcony.
Written by: ANDRE CHRISTOPHER LYON, MARCELLO VALENZANO, JOSEPH ANTHONY CARTAGENA, MOHANDAS DEWESE, B. ROBINSON
Lyrics © BMG Rights Management, Universal Music Publishing Group, Downtown Music Publishing, REACH MUSIC PUBLISHING, MOJO MUSIC & MEDIA GROUP LTD, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
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