Cru - Nuthin' ButLyrics

Aiyo I'm just lottin' through 'cause I finished with that booty call Green Acres more, lot and Queens had it all Got the beat from my man Big Stan 50 Grand Rhythm Blunt Cru, Black Rob in demand Mic check one, and the mic check two Rhythm Blunt Cru runs through you like the flu Fuck ya whole shop up and inside Leave ya jaw to the floor, eyes open wide Loungin' in my crib upon, now in 12 floor Lo-Lo wit the ham come knockin' at my door She sell glock shells by the sea shore Payin' for the guests on that big ass boat Yo kids, I'm takin' no shorts, back and forth like a meter Play it crazy, ballin' see ya, park dark black Adidas Art shines, 'cause I'm double, Spanish honies say Roberto Fuck that, I buck that bitch nigga from your borough Well lyrical gats, at the smalls of my back In facts, I pack extras up in my nap sacks Greenbacks, let me layin' back and relax Gainin' riches, bitches just by kickin' the mere fact Nigga I can make ya speaker shake Make ya break, now ya upstate gettin' raped While I'm home makin' hits That smokin' so much weed that I start hearin' shit Aiyo, fuck is that shit yo (What) You hear that shit (What?) Don't fuck with me, ya niggas hear that shit Ya niggas fuck with (Yo chill, man take it) rhythm Blunt Cru, knockin' at the door Nothin' but the rough, rugged and hardcore Rhythm Blunt Cru, knockin' at the door Nothin' but the rough, rugged and hardcore rhythm Blunt Cru, knockin' at the door Nothin' but the rough, rugged and hardcore Rhythm Blunt Cru, knockin' at the door Nothin' but the rough, rugged and hardcore Jack call Yopes, so I stay to bring the metal To my job on 34th, I got some beef with these devils Automatic weapons, fuck askin' niggas questions Leave them torn, as the justice cypher born then we steppin' All rise, parental discretion is advised And be wise, 'cause one who fronts is one who dies Smoke buddah by the mic, just like a barracuda Flush the Cru to the ground like Roto Rooter A fight, a fight, a nigga and a white If a nigga don't win, we all jump in Wanna be me, but you can't see me 'cause I don't rap like Michael Jackson those little wee-wees Uck it, bottom line, top of the page Loves to fuck a big body bitch like Rage Runnin' through uptown like I don't got no sense And Frederick K. Price couldn't find no evidence Yo I make the grade, now I'm crazy paid Niggas watch me close like muslims in the World Trade Center, represent the click in the city Blowin' up the spot, like silicone titties Try to defeat beat, nigga ya dead wrong Too head strong and got a 38 leg long So fuck around, lay around on the wet ground By the tray pound and these sick niggas from uptown Let me clear my throat now