Rollin'

(album: Killa Beez: The Sting - 2002)

[Doc Doom:]
Oh, how I love my a hundred spokes
Flossing and shit
California
Flossing on them gold ones
Black Knights
The chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them
Sipping on a cold one, rolling 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

Rolling, sipping on a cold one, rolling on them
Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them
Rolling, sipping on a cold one, rolling on them
Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them
Rolling, sipping on a cold one, rolling on them
Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them
Rolling, sipping on a cold one, rolling 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 rolling, rolling, rolling on them twenty-twos
Ain't got no money or love for you funny fools
'Cause I be rolling, rolling, rolling on them twenty-twos
Sipping brews, packing 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:]
Rolling, sipping on a cold one, rolling on them
Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them
Rolling, sipping on a cold one, rolling on them
Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them
Rolling, sipping on a cold one, rolling on them
Gold ones, the chrome ones, the old ones—I sold them
Rolling, sipping on a cold one, rolling on them
Gold ones, gold ones, gold ones, gold ones