Brooklyn Babies

(альбом: Bobby Digital: Digital Bullet - 2001)

[Tiffany]
Bobby, I'm tired of yo' shit, nigga!
I'm tired of you coming in at 3 o'clock in the morning
Nigga, you got a family here
You act like you don't fucking know that shit
Nigga, what the fuck?

[RZA: overlapped by chorus]
Yo, yo, yo, yo..
Growing up in crazy Cali
Yo, yo, yo..

[Chorus 1: Force MD's]
Digital, these niggas should be crazy
Growing up as a Brooklyn baby
Bedstuy, this is my life..

[RZA]
Yo, yo, yo..
A Brooklyn baby, I was bron up in King's County
Inside the womb seven months before the Queen found me
Up in wroughty Brownsville with fiends around me
Now roam gat in Staten with Cream Team around me
They called me Bobby, cousin, really got the black Harley
Taught his son how to spike cats like Lee Harvey
Oswald, all's well that ends well
My big brother Divine, he pushed the Benz well
I got the cherry Range, broke and rocking heavy chains
I'm from the tribe of men who would bury Kings
On the back of the A-train, my daydream
Should I make a phat hit or should I take CREAM?
From the Clan that taught you Cash Rules
I make soul grind tracks, you grab ass too
Give respect to the Prince when he pass through
Might have a chocolate deluxe in a glass shoe
Cousin Billy, known to strap the black uzi
Two-two in front of the Jakes like Jack Ruby
Live on TV where you see B-O-B-B-Y
D-I-G-I-T-A-L, A-L, things ain't too well

[Chorus 1]

[Chorus 2: Force MD's]
Digital, these niggas should be crazy
Growing up as a Brooklyn baby
This is how I live my life..

[Masta Killa]
Yeah..
Peace Lafyetee, Stuyvessant, Malcolm X
Shot dice on green, we live from Calasky y'all
It's Fred Glassy, zig-zag-zig through traffic
Get the herb, get the God, peace Ra'
What's the word on things?
Through the phone I heard the banging sounds
in the background, laying down
I'm spitting what the people missing
We extreme with the murder type theme
Don't sleep, get ya head split to the white meat
Big guns, down South we blaze
Shipping bodies back up North, it's the Weston
Wild Texan, no trespassing
Long mics hit the dead arm
Planet Earth, home of Islam
Brooklyn, I was physically born, clothes torn
Rough tackling the streets, Allah Math' spine Technics
We bring heat to the block party, drinking Bacardi
Bagging shorties for the homies who ain't here

[Chorus: both to fade]

[Tiffany: overlapped by chorus]
Bobby, that's right, you ain't shit, nigga
You ain't shit, but a big dick and a mothafucking cheque
All that fucking Brooklyn shit, Shaolin shit
Nigga, grow the fuck up!
What the fuck is up with you, nigga?
You ain't shit, nigga
Coming in high off that shit
What the fuck?
I'm tired of yo' shit
What the fuck is that shit anyway?
What the fuck?
And your cousin Billy, I'm sick of that mothafucka
That mothafucka could never come up in this
mothafucking house ever again
He's a criminal mothafucking gangsta, see that shit?
A criminal, I'm sick of that shit
I'm sick of yo' shit, Bobby [echoes]
Brooklyn this, Shaolin that
What the fuck, nigga?
I don't know why I love your stupid ass anyway
Pssh.. but I do love you Bobby