Rollin'

feat. RZA [Doc Doom] Oh how I love my a hundred spokes Flossin and shit, California Flossin on them gold ones Black Knights Old ones, I sold them Sippin on a cold one, Rollin on them gold ones The chrome was the old ones, I sold them Can I get a drum roll please for my gold D's? Hundred spoke Daytonas, wish we all could be California Smokin bank in the corners in a black six-deuce Hittin switches, dippin, switchin on that ackrite juice Act like you, wan' try and take my D's Watch how fast these slugs in this thang gon' leave Watch how many holes in ya body it leaves Watch how much pints of blood you bleed May the fake thugs retreat, pop up barkin the heat Caravanin nine-to-ten cars deep Down the 'shaw where Knights is known to breakin laws And if a bitch is ridin with me she's takin it off Now get off ya job, if not bitch I'm layin you off 'cause I guess the last nigga that you fucked with was soft That ain't me, it cost just to floss with me And how I love my a hundred spoke D's [Chorus 3.5X: Doc Doom] Rollin, sippin on a cold one, Rollin on them gold ones The chrome was the old ones, I sold them [RZA] Yo Up in a black bourbon tank labelled GMC Smokin on a Newport long and PCP Gat tucked in, easy pass, I'm low duckin Dimepiece bird on the side I'm finger-fuckin Bouncin off this deuce-deuces, fat like Polo gooses Eighteen-inch woofers movin studio acoustics Rim tri-star, chrome on my side-bar Don't hate crab 'cause I caught ya bitch eye par Platinum grill, re-enforced solid steel Superstar engine, force of an eighteen wheel That'll crash through brick walls, smash intersections Move through ya city escorted with police protection Heated polished seats with back massages You gotta know how to roll in more like Kenny Rogers Tinted glass, PS2 plus Dreamcast Smoke screens, blindin high blasts GPS satellite navigation Automatic lock doors drop jackers to the station You got beef you get fed to Doc Doom Goon, you can't fuck with Wu Killa Bee Clan platoon I might get Holocaust to come and cough on you My nigga Crisis might love to let one off on you Or Rugged Monk rolls up another blunt The great Digi goes and lures out another cunt 'cause I be Rollin, Rollin, Rollin on them twenty-twos Ain't got no money or love for you funny fools 'cause I be Rollin, Rollin, Rollin on them twenty-twos Sippin brews, packin tools for you funny fools [Monk] I'm from the land of chaos where niggaz get shot for trippin I caught a fool slippin on some D's, now I'm steady dippin Cruisin, movin up the block 'cause I'm the shit Stick dick to hoodrats, make gangsta hits I baptize my sticks, ice skate on seventeens On the phone with five-oh, don't you love them D's? While they spin, you freeze in ya souped up paint clean Fifties, amps, six by nines and thangs Comin down the block, let my sub straight bang Like, "Fuck the po-po's, I'm not turnin it down" I love to floss as I toss up a fifth of that Crown Bank corner after corners, watch all the ho's smile [Chorus 3.5X]