RZA, Timbo King, Madam Scheez, Free Murda, Force MD’s, Doc Doom - Digi-Electronics lyrics

Come on, come on yo, ye yeah, ye yeah
Where Ya At? Where Ya At?
Takin' it back to 1982
Runnin' Brownsville as we bring you
(Where Ya At? Where Ya At?)
That phat old school shit
The best of the troup could find
Boodoodoodoodoo! Yo yo

My crew is super duper fly and
We came to get pai-aid
We pack those Glocks and razor blades
Duckin' spa-a-a-ades
Rollin' that sticky chocolate thai
We 'bout to get bla-a-azed
Y'all cats can't play with us
It's not a ga-a-a-a-ame

Roll up the Winchester, call up my wife
Celestea Poindexter
Tell her bring back the black iron
Mac strapped with two extra
Clips whizzin' at you, worms in the Big Apple
Potholes in the street crack the Benz axle
Don't let me come and descend my mens at you
You candid cats is fish Jack mackerel
B-O-B boy, fast like Bruce Leroy
Caramel sundae honey set the decoy
For you soldiers seekin' to de-stroy
Me, what the fuck you think
We got the heat for?
You dunce, we knock out your gold fronts
Shorty got bigger and strong once
She start smokin' blunts
With beef they get found in Hunt's
There's no chance to score
Your best bet's to punt

I know R&B niggas that's harder than you
Young TG's with more street smarts than you
Hit a liq'
Shit you ain't got the heart to do
And I bet the click you
Run with they bustas too fuck a pass
We come strapped when we passin' through
All types of straps
You get clapped just for actin' new
Collectin' more guns ever since
My cash done grew
Bad ass with no dad so I'm a bastard too
Ask your crew, nigga, I gay bash 'em too
Grab his strap then ski mask and bash 'em too

West Cost rider, credit card slider
Roll up the windows and pass the lighter
I done turned into a lover
Used to be a fighter
Now I pull out my guns and
Take 'em out one by one
You're refutable bitch
Sittin' on pins and needles
I done seen bitches emotions breakin'
Up like The Beatles
Who's the real bitch now? Seen
The fear in yo' tears
Next time grown folks is talkin'
Shut the fuck up here
A product of my environment
Until my retirement
Have a habit of the automatic
Breakin' up the static
And if y'all niggas wanna trip
Y'all can suck my dick
I got eight or nine of 'em
Different colors and shit

Smell like the rain forest
Got diamonds in the hood - flawless
Sable Taurus, spit a verse, no chorus
You're on the wrong turf
One of my songs worth
Two mil', eh yo, red pill, blue pill
Still stay focused, off-white lotus, brokers
I'ma dead y'all slot time
No spins on the hot nine
Eh yo, my hot nine got my whole block sign
I rhyme gangsta, pops was an OG
I'm a junior, my son'll be the third
Let 'em learn degrees, the bees and the birds
(uh huh)
Let 'em learn degrees, the bees and the birds

Why you actin' cuckoo like you
Just flew over nest?
Like I give a fuck how much weight you bench
Shyheim, my government and my attributes
BIG left me the Tec and the nine at my crib
So Gimme the Loot
Or LBC ya like Snoop, I'm out to get coof
Again coof
Turn up the thermostat, peep the murder rap
'Bout to bring it back, in the name of crack
In the name of dope
Ridin' through the hood in
The Diamondback with spokes
In the name of thai, cliches and skunk
I came to get high, came to get drunk
I came with the Tec, Bobby came with the pump
We left with the shines, left with two dimes
Sittin' on dubs, royal flush, five of a kind
Countin' the spare for the deuce ooh ooh-one
Nigga, our year, niggas, our year

Yeah, yeah, yeah yo, talkin' all drunk
Makin' a rap right here fool remainders
Like he can't get clapped right here
Fuck the walkin', Freemurder pack right here
On some napalm and bamboo track right there
Fuck twenty-five, shit
I'm strapped to the chair
Cuffie Crime Fam', my fifth black in the air
Y'all don't want none
Lead ya back down the stairs
Once the Mac appear
Four heat, I ain't hit 'im
Shoot back fire wit 'im
Whole empire wit 'im, never plea guilty
I ain't hit 'im guess who lyin' wit 'im
Left po', ya dead broke like Holy's ear
When Tyson bit 'im
Still on point like lime segment
Pull out joints, the nine wet men
Double action, don't want no trouble, askin'
"Who I be?", Murder like Tai Chi
Get ya brain tilt
New Yorker, Brooklyn is where he come from