Cruddy Clique

(álbum: 19 Naughty III - 1993)

A real worried of the flurries, scared as shit of getting hit
You'd think a wall fell out ya ass the way you keep shitting bricks
I revolve around a blow, ya be in slow to a quick right
From what ya girl's squeezed, could match ya age out ya dick size
From now, some how, comes now, street sound
You'll see me toll-free dial 1-800 with a beat down
A loss ya can't afford to take, stand alone now
I'm the man that come to spank ya ass in your own hometown
Watch me heat ya up and eat ya quick, ya popped Pop-Tart
Flows to rise ya mind to make ya rhyme's pour and stop-start
To hell with all who hates me
Straight up trouble, you wait, see
I'ma stick you on a cancel list with WHT
Ain't lovey-dovey, style is stubby, nobody's hubby
Plus too fucking cruddy to be buddies
And what about the kid they was busting him and rushing him?
"Hey, mane. Chu shoulda peaced with him. I never fucking trusted him."

Oh, you don't know?
Boom! Bap! Smack! (And there it is!)
Oh, you don't know?
Boom! Bap! Smack! (And there it is!)
Oh, you don't know?
Boom! Bap! Smack! (And there it is!)
(-So there it is, so there it is...)

Yoo, hoo!

To all ya rhyming mother fuckers thinking no one can get with ya
Put a DICK in ya mouth and when it's out tell me the temperature
I used to be on some next shit, but now some new shit
Some def shit when I do shit, some shit you wish that you did
Now I'ma pimp you like a punk, bitch-slap you like I want
Stick you like a shank, now sit up like a lump
You little lily-liver ass nigga, I'm about to lily-lift ya ass
Into the river of now you give-a-FUCK
How I struck when I buck and knuckle up
I tell you to deal quick
You don't wanna fuck with the real shit
I got 118 reasons of nigga's that'll track the treason
And trap the trigga, so now ya figured that I
FUCKED ya flow, STUCK up ya hoe!
Put nuts to the nose! Guts'll show
What up? Nothing, I KNOW
'Cause I ain't having all the chitter-chatter
Hit you with the pitter-patter
'Cause on these tracks, my style gets bigger fatter
All for the action, plus a fan of Michael Jackson
Give him dibs, mother FUCK who face he bought and put on his
Nigga's too nosy, talking that ol' dumb shit! Bum shit
I'm the cruddy nigga you don't wanna run with

Oh, you don't know?
Boom! Bap! Smack! (And there it is!)
Oh, you don't know?
Boom! Bap! Smack! (And there it is!)
Oh, you don't know?
Boom! Bap! Smack! (And there it is!)
(-So there it is, so there it is...)

I hang with some...
Killer, crazy, cruddy, smack-ya-mother type of nigga's
Quick to split a liver if a tongue flipper's against the rhyme ripper
Pick a plate! A time, a rhyme, a flow, a feel, a vibe
Pick a fucking style of your own, stop picking mine
I don't talk jack-shit that I can't pull, slick
So feed the cows if you want some BULL-SHIT
Fuck all them trying to rank spots
'Cause there's a fright light in their ass
They're wearing jock straps for tank tops
Smells like ya ATE A MIDGET
Stuck ya chrome in front of my face
Fuck your whole demo and your gimmicks
And don't come up with that "ol' buddy" shit...

And FUCK any BITCH that can't hang with a Cruddy Clique!