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Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Brand Nubian
Brand Nubian
Programming
Loon
Loon
Vocals
Alamo
Alamo
Programming
Thomas Bart
Thomas Bart
Keyboards
Diamond D
Diamond D
Programming
Grand Puba
Grand Puba
Programming
Buck Wild
Buck Wild
Programming
DJ O. Gee
DJ O. Gee
Programming
Chris "C.L." Liggio
Chris "C.L." Liggio
Programming
Lord Finesse
Lord Finesse
Programming
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Lorenzo Dechalus
Lorenzo Dechalus
Lyrics
Willie Dixon
Willie Dixon
Composer
Coleman Hawkins
Coleman Hawkins
Composer
K. Jones
K. Jones
Lyrics
Derek Murphy
Derek Murphy
Composer
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Brand Nubian
Brand Nubian
Mixing Engineer
Alamo
Alamo
Producer
Drew Dixon
Drew Dixon
Executive Producer
Jeff Dixon
Jeff Dixon
Executive Producer
Jim Albert
Jim Albert
Recording Engineer
Brian Garten
Brian Garten
Recording Engineer
Dave Hyman
Dave Hyman
Recording Engineer
Tom Leinbach
Tom Leinbach
Recording Engineer
Eddie Sancho
Eddie Sancho
Recording Engineer
Kirk Yano
Kirk Yano
Recording Engineer
Andrew Blakelock
Andrew Blakelock
Mixing Engineer
Diamond D
Diamond D
Mixing Engineer
DJ Premier
DJ Premier
Mixing Engineer
Jason Goldstein
Jason Goldstein
Mixing Engineer
Ken "Duro" Ifill
Ken "Duro" Ifill
Mixing Engineer
Matt Stein
Matt Stein
Mixing Engineer
Patrick Viala
Patrick Viala
Mixing Engineer
Fred Hedemark
Fred Hedemark
Assistant Engineer
Bill Importico
Bill Importico
Assistant Engineer
Jason Stasium
Jason Stasium
Assistant Engineer
Dexter Thibou
Dexter Thibou
Assistant Engineer
Grand Puba
Grand Puba
Assistant Engineer
Artese Williams
Artese Williams
Assistant Engineer
Tom Coyne
Tom Coyne
Mastering Engineer
Anthony Harrison Jr.
Anthony Harrison Jr.
Creative Director

Songtexte

No, Flagro Uh, what Yeah, Brand Nu' comin' through Long Island, Harlem World, all out, all out Let's talk about tit What, yeah, now put ya hands up Uh, what, now put ya hands up Put ya hands up Now get ya back up off the wall I'm better feeling than running raw Chain gang link I need a shrink What y'all niggaz think I'm a do when I get real money Iano keys played in series Peace to Lil' Cease Microphone track board, loose chord, oh Lord Promo number one Sadat X had a grenade And the have next day I smashed the shit Allie played Now we delayed by ninety days You better find me anyways You better return to the Terror dome, ain't nobody home Non-haters play the corner in the elevator Crash crews smack the open palm so you don't bruise You push a button and what happens nothing I push one and there's a man with a gun in the doorway I'm in 4A, I been in there all day I had some smokes, some bitches and chicken on a slab There's enough for everybody so y'all niggaz don't grab Come on, come on, come on, yo So get your back up off the wall What, I said dance, come on, come on So put your hands up Stop frontin and pop somethin Cornball niggaz stay frontin ain't got nothin Mad cause the life I lead, twice ya speed Brown-skinned Miami, that's the wife I need Light that weed, front nigga might just bleed Tryin to ball with y'all but I might just flee The second coming of Christ I'll make you run for your life It's like a gun up against a knife You can never win, when we fight to the end I'm tight with the pen Don't be going off the head, cause they be blown off the head And showin off the skills of the mentally dead I do the knowledge before any words get said Herbs get me red, hold on, Simply Red Pimps be dead in rap, everybody's fed with that Y'all could go ahead with that I'm trying to show you where my head is at Dread be the positive black Drop the B, you get lack See you when you get back Lyrical three-pack, spiritual miracle Uhh, Lord Jamar the imperial Microphone serial killer, urban guerilla You acting mysterious, we out to take this rap shit serious Slap the taste out of your mouth, then break out Come on, come on, come on, yo So get your back up off the wall What, I said dance, come on, come on So put your hands up Stop frontin and pop somethin Cornball niggaz stay frontin ain't got nothin Mad cause the life I lead, twice ya speed Brown-skinned Miami, that's the wife I need Light that weed, front nigga might just bleed Tryin to ball with y'all but I might just flee Now I'm a put a rush up on molasses Breeze on through like easy passes Wiggle more asses than aerobic classes El kabong, my people blaze them trees up like Cheech and Chong Get that ass open like a pair of butt cheeks in thong For sure dog, I don't mean to come off pushy Blaze your party hot, and have it smelling like D'bussy Spit my phlegm and drop my gem Collect my wins and copy the Benz with the icy rims I be dramatical, mathematical, radical thriller The mic killa wreckin more shit than Godzilla Matter of fact I'm more iller, knock your shit off the pillar The four-wheeler touched every flava but vanilla You know my name, my game, so shorty shake that thang I get you open like them ball-head niggaz on Rogaine Spit my flow all the way from New Ro' To Acapulco, white poos brown like cocoa Flip flows def like so so Come on, come on, come on, yo So get your back up off the wall What, I said dance, come on, come on So put your hands up Stop frontin and pop somethin Cornball niggaz stay frontin ain't got nothin Mad cause the life I lead, twice ya speed Brown-skinned Miami, that's the wife I need Light that weed, front nigga might just bleed Tryin to ball with y'all but I might just flee
Writer(s): Lorenzo Dechalus, Maxwell Dixon, Derek Murphy, Chauncey Lamont Hawkins, Keith R. Jones Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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