Bobby, Bobby, Bobby Bobby Bobby, Bobby, Bobby Bobby, Bobby, Bobby, Bobby Psssh. Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo! Yo. Bobby Yo, yo, RZA Bobby Yo, yo, RZA Bobby B-Bobby, yo Hit the bodega for a 40 ounce son, Garcia Vega Two bags of chips, and one pack of Now & Laters Flame tucked down to my nuts, on my last buck Only thing keep a nigga calm is a good f*ck Loose-leaf cigarettes be dipped in wet Chicken of the seas get trapped inside my net With their clothes off, son when the gun goes off I'm bound to play Napoleon, and blow a nose off Your Sphinx; your stumble rap style, your flow's off Like Kunta, tryin to run with his chopped toes off Unchallenged sword I yield the storm rider Clip full of ruffled-tip fast-actin long fire Four hundred grain cartridge, with steel casin Those who can't draw the crowd is still tracin The mic is cast to the floor and shapeshifted Heavy as the hammer of Thor you can't lift it So tense, bitch there's no defense This four-four inch'll make you jump the fence Right eye squinted; I speak brok-len english Stumble off the cold four,oh of Olde English Wu brew Two-two inside the shoe No describin what this heat, in my jacket could do I teach, seeds to read, never reach for the weed indeed Bow down to the great Bob Digi Digi (Bobby) Yo, it must be Bobby (Bobby) Oh, no, it must be Bobby (Bobby) Oh, no, it must be Bobby (Bobby) Oh, no, it must be I keep rice soaked in coconut milk mixed with tofu Sit in the sun six hours then I charge up like Goku Dragonball Z; imagine you're raggin me That's like walkin through a Blood hood flaggin a C Not, tryin to tell you how much weight we carry It may get, every snake in the tri-state buried Plus, Feds had one add, sayin I gun traffed I sold twenty million records bitch; some laugh! Fresh shafts of morning dew on Nancy Drew Sherlock Holmes crime sleuth couldn't figure the Wu You loaf of bread head, keep a sober head One point five million years my overhead (Bobby) Yo, yo, it must be Bobby (Bobby) Yo, yo, it must be Bobby (Bobby) Oh, no, it must be Bobby (Bobby) Yo, check, yo I keep MC's puzzled keep my dogs in the muzzle Ice cold forty ounce drink 'em down with one guzzle Son might spit a word at a bird, see if she chirp back Tall chocolate deluxe buttercup, off the meat rack A chickenhead scratch the yard for worms And roosters walk around with their heads in the perm I be spreadin knowledge keepin my third eye polished Never, chase for dollars to fulfill the black wallet You must be Bellevue son I walk with twelve jewels Afford anything this world could sell you Beats that the change the style'll rearrange ya BZA-Bobby! I'm strikin you like Beatlemania Yo, it must be Bobby Oh, no, it must be Bobby Yo, son, it must be Bobby BZA-buh, BZA-wha', BZA-Bobby (Bobby) Fuckin up the mic is still my hobby (Bobby) F-fuckin up the mic is still my hobby (Bobby) Yo, yo, it must be.. doo doo! (Bobby) Yeah yeah
Written by: ROBERT F. DIGGS
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
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