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Rollin' Lyrics - Artist : Wu-Tang Clan
[Doc Doom:]
Oh, how I love my a hundred spokes Flossin' and shit California Flossin' on them gold ones Black Knights The chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them Sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, the chrome ones, 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 bankin the corners in a black six-deuce Hittin switches, dippin Sip'n on that act rite 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 The Knights is known for breakin laws And if a bitch is ridin with me, she's takin it off Like get on 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 Oh, how I love to floss on my hundred spoke D's Rollin', sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them Rollin', sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them Rollin', sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them Rollin', sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, gold ones, gold ones, gold ones [RZA:] Yo, up in a black urban 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 Supercharge 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 massagers You gotta know how to roll 'em, like Kenny Rogers Tinted glass, PS2 plus Dreamcast Smoke screens, blindin high blasts GPS satellite navigation Automatic lock doors, drive jackers to the station You got beef you get fed to Doc Doom, coon 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 The 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 [Rugged Monk:] I'm from the land of chaos, where niggas 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 405, Oh don't you love them D's? When they spin, you freeze Engine 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 Watchin all the ho's smile [Doc Doom:] Rollin', sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them Rollin', sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them Rollin', sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them Rollin', sippin' on a cold one, rollin' on them Gold ones, gold ones, gold ones, gold ones |
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