Lisa Lipps Lyrics - Singles - Cru

Run for the cue 

Lisa Lipps 

Was a Rolling Stone, huh 

Yeah, wherever she slap slob wasn't home 

And now she's gone, ain't no sun 

Shine meaning she's gone 

Hum do a lah, that means, What up, Shah? 

It's the Mighty Ha drinkin' Mo' at the bar 

Bakee after bakee, blunt after blunt 

Smoke a bag of buhdah and became bitche's with the skunk 

Nat King Cole was a merry old soul 

Made you move that ab, drop shit from your whole 

Grab a budjock and lick shot from the glock 

You were told to swing off a tree from a jump 

Run up in attics and Elvis, now I'm gone 

Back on the streets in the heart of P Long 

Man oh man lick shots if I have to 

Submit to me as your lord and master 

It's the Mighty Ha, I'm a street Bronx, I 

Deliver the real like Walter Chronkite 

God I'm a destiny, black man 

Devil's in the rain receive the backhand 

Yesterday, my trouble seems so far away 

So help me Wanda, help, help, me Wanda 

Be a none beast known and the Y, O, G 

Make your moon walk, spin walk grab your ti ty 

Hit you in the head with the broom to the back 

Sport a pair of Balley's and a Mighty Ha hat 

Comin from the Bronx like KRS One 

Electrify the crowd like they shooting stone guns 

Rhythem Blunt Cru, Violator, Def Jam 

Known for tricken lyrics and smackin mad hands 

Ahh, don't give a uh 

Caught for the cause 17 to the shot 

It's the Mighty Ha with the mic and the glock 

My style's buck naughty what day is it ack? 

Type of situation pops from uptown 

You can lick balls cause I front to be down 

Til I lie rep a dollar kickin the Willies to the Hiedy 

Rhythem Blunt Cru, Baby Chris Lighty 

Ponies never ran before 

Rain never fell 

Til I met you 

And I can't get enough of your love, babe 

What!? 

Chim, chim, chiminie chim, chim, che-ree 

Comin from the top, ah, it's the Migh ty 

Hit you with the felony and a misdemeanor 

Hit a hundred push-ups and I got the spray Alenor 

Got mad buttocks, ass cheeks, yo stop 

Got more charges than a Nicachew pac 

I'm the maker, owner, cream of the crop 

Felicha you erection to the top 

I can't seem to get rid of these fuckin chickenheads 

Word to the mother drop dead brest fed 

You better duck down when I draw my 8 luger 

Scoop that ass quickie, better skin bag of booty 

What goes on ya heard?