Cru - Lisa Lipps lyrics

[Mighty Ha] 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 b**he's with the skunk Nat "King" Cole was a merry old soul Made you move that ab, drop sh** 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 bu*tocks, a** 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 f**in chickenheads Word to the mother drop dead brest fed You better duck down when I draw my 8 luger Scoop that a** quickie, better skin bag of booty [DJ Footlong] What goes on ya heard?