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    Boksi

    Nine - Whutcha Want

    Verse One:
    I gets banned if I do gets banned if I don't
    So sometimes I will and sometimes I won't
    Puff mad stick crack a forty down the back
    Sit fat and relax and plan my attack
    Not the one to test I posess mad finesse
    My buddha was blessed one bird in the nest
    Chills with my peeps steady bouncing in jeeps
    on the New York streets hittin urban concrete
    I'm the man untestable, with the extraterrestrial flow
    Fo'-fifty-fix celo, pop the top off the forty ounce bottle
    I'm not the one to follow, I'm not the role model
    Hollow tips in my clips money grip and my Glock
    only spits when I react to the bullshit
    So give me room to breathe and get up off DEEZ
    And save the confessions for JEESuz
    Plus I don't need to hear no sorrow
    Eff it, the sun will still come out tomorrow
    Long as I'm breathing, needing, even like Steven
    Achieving, gettin some cheese and
    representin lovely, Boogie Down Bronx major
    with the project flavor, I made ya, daze ya
    My behavior is mad ill if you front
    You know what I want!

    Chorus:
    (Whutcha want Nine?) Fat beats for my rides
    (So whutcha want Nine?) Mad clips for my nines
    (So whutcha want Nine?) A ill posse
    and my name up in lights, N-I-N-E

    Verse Two:
    I'ma let you know how I feel on the real
    I pack steel it's like a jungle makes me wonder where my eel is
    Hits the bricks skips the dog shit complete in my cipher
    Temper like Rowdy Rowdy Piper, hyper like a viper
    I'ma strike if I got it goin for the jugular
    Stretch you like a copper
    Stoppah, stoppah, but you can't stop me
    Just clock me, just watch me blow up the spot G
    Came a long way from, back in the day
    we did it for no pay, just rhymin hit the hay and
    sleep, wake up, write another rhyme
    Hit the park after dark drop the beat one time
    That's when shit was real, no phonies no baloney
    Just the homemade mics and wheels of steel
    Backup from the roof, amp plugged in the street light
    Everything right, jam over a street fight
    Back to the lab I grab my pen and pad
    Raw lyrics make a fleuredoscad
    Had no dinero, enough get fo' chicken wings and rice
    A forty ounce a nickel bag to get nice
    And now I might make a million, and still son
    it makes the heart pump, you know what I want

    Chorus
    (Whutcha want Nine?) Fat beats for my rides
    (So whutcha want Nine?) Mad clips for my nines
    (So whutcha want Nine?) A ill posse
    and my name up in lights, N-I-N-E

    Verse Three:
    Be like Elmer J. Fudd with the mansion and the yacht
    Brand new Glock non-stop hip-hop
    Remote control boombox lampin on my dresser
    The God ain't no lesser as the pressure comes to test ya
    Hundred pound weight around the neck, daily
    nuff treasons nuff reasons like Philip Bailey
    Can't get enough of that funky stuff
    Rhymin astronomical, original, shit is phenomenal
    Heat up the ghetto put the pedal to the metal
    Speed like Racer treat you like a wack rhyme and erase ya
    Right off the pape I roll a big fat spliff
    Four-fifth on the hip, Heineken in the grip shit I'm ready
    Get the keys for the jeep, let's bounce
    Cruise avenues, get some brews and sing the blues with the
    Funkmaster Flex cassette in the deck
    I'm in effect I move my neck while Son gets wreck
    Oh what a feeling, I'm on the wheels of steel and
    I snatch up some skins for some sexual healing
    Erything's kosher copasctetic, groovy hip-hop moves me
    soothes me, I'm letting off like an uzi
    But first steps a doozy and bruise me
    Now I'm choosy before I start to freak it like a floozy
    I wanna get big get paid true stunt
    You know what I want!

    Chorus
    (Whutcha want Nine?) Fat beats for my rides
    (So whutcha want Nine?) Mad clips for my nines
    (So whutcha want Nine?) A ill posse
    and my name up in lights, N-I-N-E