Видео

Создатели

ИСПОЛНИТЕЛИ
Wu-Tang Clan
Wu-Tang Clan
Исполнитель
Raekwon
Raekwon
Вокал
GZA
GZA
Вокал
Busta Rhymes
Busta Rhymes
Вокал
МУЗЫКА И СЛОВА
Robert Diggs
Robert Diggs
Автор песен
Corey Woods
Corey Woods
Автор песен
Gary Grice
Gary Grice
Автор песен
Junior Reid
Junior Reid
Автор песен
Dennis Coles
Dennis Coles
Автор песен
Trevor Smith, Jr.
Trevor Smith, Jr.
Автор песен
ПРОДЮСЕРЫ И ЗВУКОРЕЖИССЕРЫ
Robert Diggs
Robert Diggs
Исполнительный продюсер
RZA
RZA
Продюсер
Mitchell Diggs
Mitchell Diggs
Исполнительный продюсер
Oli Grant
Oli Grant
Исполнительный продюсер
Jose "Choco" Reynoso
Jose "Choco" Reynoso
Инженер звукозаписи
James Cruz
James Cruz
Мастеринг-инженер
Dennis Coles
Dennis Coles
Исполнительный продюсер

Слова

Yeah, yeah, yeah, now, what the fuck now? Flipmode, Wu-Tang shit, what the fuck now? Yeah, yeah, yeah, historical an' monumental shit What the fuck now? Yeah, yeah, yeah Straight smack a nigga right in the face like this was handball Or make a mural out his face, up on a damn wall Niggaz play hard an' shit, if you know what's best for you Y'all niggaz better safeguard your shit Even though we rep brass knuckle rap Fuck with street geniuses an' bowlegged chicks who walk with a gap Street niggaz now the corporate boss Still go to y'all restaurant for steamed fish an' Irish moss An' y-yo, the way we do it an' you see how my shit bomb Your whole show wack an' I'm a cancel your sitcom Fuck a nigga broad 'til she tired an' real calm You ain't knowin' my name tattooed on your bitch arm The way we blow shit is a shame Casually bust my gun an' celebrate bustin' a cork on the champagne Wrote you with a whole new approach that lead a whole team of niggaz Y'all should know I only ball like a coach, now Check out the light fixture, freak lines like white bitches Let the mic lines, hang that slang is ridiculous Emperor of warlords, big gun only fuck with sawed offs That's my specialty, more to bust Shot out my bed parrot, keep it gangster, Lord I analyze your work, those that got merked were not established Texture look classy, arm baby, 2000 raspberry S 5, blowin' through Asbury Soon to own steakhouses, glowin' like make over thousand Them, them niggaz, robbin' from Pinkhouse's Show an' prove, knockin' off cab drivers God, sodomize money, ring two hundred thousand See the color of the carved out Wu emblem Baby, it's all designers, tailor-made Wu gooses Limousine, automatic new Uzis in 'em yo Relax cousin, just cruise through, jewels with him Move up the block, giant box blast my song Non-stop, strictly hip hop, march on Doo rag hang long, metal tape is high bias Graphics, captured with the colorful iris I zoom in, while the listeners tune in Some assumin' they paid dues an' joined the union Lost nigga couldn't rumble in this wild jungle Quick to crumble, type to be on the stand an' fumble Divine master, threw on the track that made 'em bleed He produce at unattainable rains of top speed This powerful magnet, that left 'em stagnant Was unlikely in cameras in larger fragments Unfilled rifle, scout sniper, shots precise Starlight scope with the night vision device Splendid marksman that'll shoot the one off the dice Split a grain of rice, in one shot we kill 'em twice
Writer(s): Robert F. Diggs, Corey Woods, T. Smith, Gary E. Grice Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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