Luyện nghe bài hát Rollin'

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

Why, must I be like that? Why, must I the gat?
On my left, niggaz be with the ruckus
Ready to get bust rounds upon some suckaz
Heard PPP and LOD is a of crazy motherfuckers
Journey to the is on
The of the spittin bomb marathon
The fuck you up lyrathon, you choose
prepare to lose that
Turnin situations suicidal, my idols, is my Uncles
who smokin weed outta bibles
Gave me a puff I bust my first rifle
Men-estration cycles, I give
your craziest nigga, I'll give stitches
Whateva, go crew for crew, blow for
your headpiece and sniff the snow off your hoe
I keep it

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

I'm the master of disaster, super maker
by nature, database maker
Play em out like Sega,
Blow your blocks in patterns for about acres
Testes, crew bulletproof and double S's
Kani down, camoflouge can't hide the sounds
of a fo' (boo-yaa)
you Six Flags, bustin merry go rounds
But my crew stay ill with unreal appeal
I be the raw water, my cheek bones have gills
below like the
Smooth on the trigger for all you cockers
I be the key to
Blast and rotate enemies at three buck
Pick me, as Senator
Take the dove from battlefield son, fuck Pat Benatar
Run, for the hills
Back in the day, these niggaz rolled up on me
the trunk filled with Bomber Brooklyns, and quartervilles
Aiyyo take that shit, aiyyo snap the grill
Body caught chills as he ate nine mil
kills two but my nine was sign sealed
And ready to deliver, but Money had me too
to reach for toast, soon as that blink I broke ghost
back to South Orange Ave with dollar bill to smoke dope
I em rollin