Digi Electronics

[Intro: RZA]

Come on, come on

Yo, ye-yeah, ye-yeah

Where Ya At? Where Ya At?

Takin' it back to 1982

Runnin' Brownsville as we bring you (Where Ya At?

Where Ya At?)

That phat old school shit

The best of the troup could find

BOODOODOODOODOO!

Yo yo

[Chorus: Force MD's]

My crew is super duper fly and we came to get pai-aid

We pack those glocks and razor blades, duckin' spa-a-a-ades

Rollin' that sticky chocolate thai, we 'bout to get bla-a-azed

Y'all cats can't play with us, it's not a ga-a-a-a-ame

[Chorus - last two lines]

[RZA]

Roll up the Winchester, pull my whites, that's the poindexter

Tell him bring back the black iron Mac strapped with two extra

Clips was a natural, worms in the Big Apple

Potholes in the street crack the Benz axle

Well let me come and descend my mens at you

You can't just catch this fish Jack mackarel

B-O-B boy, fast like Bruce Lee-roy

Caramel sundae honey set the decoy

For you soldiers seekin' to de-stroy

me, what the fuck you think we got the heat for?

You dunns, we knock out your gold fronts

Shorty got bigger and strong once she start smokin' blunts

With beef they get found in Hunt's

There's no chance to score, your best bet's to punt

[Chorus]

[Doc Doom]

I know R&B niggaz that's harder than you

Young T.G.'s with more street smarts than you

Hit liq', shit you ain't got the heart to do

And I bet the click you run with they bustas too

Fuck a pass, we come strapped when we passin' through

All types of straps, you get clapped just for actin' new

Collectin' more guns ever since my cash done grew

Bad ass with no dash so I'm a bastard too

Ask your crew, nigga, I gay-bash 'em too

Grab his strap then ski-mask and bash 'em too

[Madam Scheez]

West Cost rider, credit card slider

Roll up the windows and pass the lighter

I done turned into a lover, used to be a fighter

Now I pull out my guns and take 'em out one by one

You're a beautiful bitch, sittin' on pins and needles

I done seen bitches emotions breakin' up like The Beatles

Who's the real bitch now? Seen the fear in yo' tears

Now Tyrone folks is talkin', shut the fuck up here

A product of my environment until my retirement

Have a habit of the automatic breakin' up the static

And if y'all niggaz wanna trip y'all can suck my dick

I got eight or nine of 'em, different colors and shit

[Chorus]

[Timbo King]

Smell like the rain forest, got diamonds in the hood - flawless

Sable Taurus, spit a verse, no chorus

You're on the wrong turf, one of my songs worth

two mil', eh-yo, red pill, blue pill

Still stay focused, off-white lotus, brokers

I'ma dead y'all slot time, no spins on the hot nine

Eh-yo, my hot nine got my whole block sign

I rhyme gangsta, pops was an O.G.

I'm a junior, my son'll be the third

Let 'em learn degrees, the bees and the birds (uh-huh)

Let 'em learn degrees, the bees and the birds

[Shyheim]

Why you actin' cuckoo like you just flew over nest?

Like I give a fuck how much weight you bench

Shyheim, my government and my attributes

BIG left me the Tec and the nine at my crib, so Gimme the Loot

Or L.B.C. ya like Snoop, I'm out to get coof, again coof

Turn up the thermostat, peep the murder rap

'Bout to bring it back, in the name of crack

In the name of dope

Ridin' through the hood in the Diamondback with spokes

In the name of thai, cliches and skunk

I came to get high, came to get drunk

I came with the Tec, Bobby came with the pump

We left with the shines, left with two dimes

Sittin' on dubs, royal flush, five of a kind

Countin' the spare for the deuce-ooh-ooh-one

Nigga, our year, niggaz, our year

[Freemurder]

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Yo, talkin' all drunk, makin' a rap right here

Fool remainders, like he can't get clapped right here

Fuck the walkin', Freemurder pack right here

On some napalm and bamboo track right there

Fuck twenty-five, shit, I'm strapped to the chair

Cuffie Crime Fam', my fifth black in the air

Y'all don't want none, lead ya back down the stairs

Once the Mac appear

Four heat, I ain't hit 'im, shoot back fire wit 'im

Whole empire wit 'im, never plea guilty, I ain't hit 'im

Guess who lyin' wit 'im

Left po', ya dead broke like Holy's ear when Tyson bit 'im

Still on point like lime segment

Pull out joints, the nine wet men

Double action, don't want no trouble, askin'

"Who I be?", Murder like Tai Chi

Get ya brain tilt

New Yorker, Brooklyn is where he come from