Luyện nghe bài hát Rollin'

Nineteen ninety mother six
that shit though
Get the motherfuckin Squad
We got to pull shoes out like carpet, word is bond
Test the crew with the guns and let's get shit on

Why, must I be like that? Why, must I the gat?
On my left, be rollin with the ruckus
Ready to get deep bust rounds upon some
Heard PPP and LOD is a bunch of crazy
Journey to the is on
The winner of the spittin bomb
The fuck you up lyrathon, whatever you
prepare to that title
Turnin vital situations suicidal, my idols, is my
who started smokin weed outta
Gave me a when I bust my first rifle
Men-estration cycles, I bitches
Bring your craziest nigga, give stitches
Whateva, go for crew, blow for blow
Bang your headpiece and the snow off your hoe
I keep it

Ask man
How ugly do you to be to be a hardcore MC?
Niggaz be by my plaques and my light skin complexture
My whole texture is bombin, da schools of the wack
From the Land of the Lost, you get
to my veloc(ity), my crew's comin off
Yeah, more sneaky casino switches
ditches for all Moskino bitches
Clockin decimal figures, I'm out diggers
Now my of truck is a Land
cause a much bigger
It pack two to three niggaz
I hate a golddigger
Yeah, gimme microphone
I opponents shit bricks like Tyson's home
I keep the jacked cellular phone blown in zones
Love seafood and keep my nine chrome
So it can shine up dome
When I proceed to give you what you need and clear spots like Sea
Wreckin ass armaggedeon style
Twenty four seven
My chin check your profile
(Rollin)

I'm the master of disaster, super rhyme
Grimy by nature, database
Play em out Sega, Saturn
Blow your in patterns for about nine acres
Testes, wearin bulletproof and double S's
Karl Kani down, camoflouge can't hide the
of a fo' (boo-yaa)
Givin you Six Flags, bustin go rounds
But my crew stay ill with unreal appeal
I be the raw water, my bones outta have gills
like the opera
Smooth on the trigger for all you block
I be the key to
Blast and enemies at three buck sixty
Pick me, as your
Take the dove from your battlefield son, fuck Pat
Run, head for the
Back in the day, these niggaz rolled up on me
the trunk filled with Brooklyns, sheeps and quartervilles
take that shit, aiyyo Money snap the grill
Body chills as he ate this nine mil
Mine kills two but my was sign sealed
And ready to deliver, but had me too close
to reach for toast, soon as nigga blink I broke ghost
Dash back to South Orange Ave with dollar bill to smoke
I keep em