Brooklyn Style...Laid Out

[Chorus] Come on y'all and feel the groove Get on down and make your move Welcome to the funkiest Brooklyn style, laid out like this I kicks the flavor good, to represent the neighborhood where I come from, and that's the place of Brooklyn where the grimies are born and bred And bullets are like eyeballs, two to the head Well is it Brownsville? Time to represent for the map where the peeps smoke blunts and like to wear mad gold caps The party addict about to explode From the 1-1-2, the double-3 ill zip code Parlayin' on the corner, drinkin' 40's shootin' cee-lo It's a Brooklyn thing, alright? You know our steelo And for those who just don't know how it go Play like a substitute teacher and ACT like you know So yo, who want to set it? You better kick your best G You and your whole entourage couldn't test me I represent for the fo' main And if you're not a booty bandit, then niggaz can't hang [Chorus] Now, let's get straight down to the point I represent for this Brooklyn joint, baby pah, where we're takin' it to Makin' a few dollars don't mean you gotta forget where you come from and try to be someone, that you're really not and front with what you got You're gonna be looked at as a black man still so keep it real What type of mission can I say you on? Because you must of done changed to some Grey Poupon, heh I'm really happy to see you blew up But always remember my man you grew up in the PJ's all your life, in a broken home (Well alright now) Up in the PJ's all your life, keepin it strong, WHAT! I be the Louis Ave livin, live long lastin lover Bonafied black brother, word to the mother Skilled at trades at hand with those who made the man with support and always stayed a fan My dialectic style is perfected in ways you can't imagine rap bein accepted Funk'll slam like a doper jam, pops I'm takin mine like taxes with Uncle Sam So check out the asiatic type of flow like water in the Nile, but it's Brooklyn style [Chorus] Yo, this is Big Scoob, no practice I'm flippin on niggaz like little kids on that mattress You know my style, Baby Pah from the PJ's My lyrics so dope, they too fat for local DJ's So hear me out, no doubt, no need for screamin' My boys in the back, clockin' your jewels, and they scheamin' Why did they step to me, I hit em, bow, bu-dow Knocked out his fronts cause the kid was mad fragile No need for beef chief I'm rollin' mad deep So pick up your teeth, I got him shakin' like a leaf Not tryin to scare you, I just want to aware you I bet you won't even look at my face (WHAT WHAT WHAT) I dare you Yo nigga please, yo I'm nice with these while you're guardin' your grill, I'll be beatin' up your kidneys Me and my boys with the fat tec 9's with my joint cocked back, in case a punk tried to take mines Where I'm from there's no need for hesitation We cock and squeeze, now where's the doctor for this patient? He's drippin' blood and now he's down to his last breath But he won't make it, cause he knows that my joint is def The ill, type of Brooklyn artist who rocks the har-dest, regard-less who you know and where you're from I pull your file (How?) Brooklyn style [Chorus]