buddha monk - brooklyn chronicles lyrics
[intro: casine kelly (shake-a-vel)]
yeah, brooklyn chronicles
buddha monk is that n-gg-, for real (five families)
o.p.n. (exclusive) o press nation (shake-a-vel)
o press was the nation, on point is the n-gg-
this sh-t is so serious right now, bk uncensored…
one time, yeah…
[hook x4: shake-a-vel]
it’s my world, my life, my hood, my n-gg-s
my dough, my flow, my dro
[shake-a-vel:]
like a fifth, leave ’em lying on a park bench, leaking
told ya’ll it’s our season
find you bleeding heavily, til you stop breathing
on the come through, recognize what the guns do
catch you in the projects, duke, flipping on the humble
send hits, all my dogs, stack chips
get lifted off weed, before i bang out
amateur n-gg-s can never hang out, when i pull a thang out
how dare these little b-st-rds
spit acid on wax til it becomes cl-ssic
my zu clan is like a mafia, use spatulas
chop ’em off, sh-t on top of ya
[chorus x2: shake-a-vel]
brooklyn, brooklyn, is where i’m from
fear no one, since a youth, bust my gun
gats clap, rapidly, you know how us b-st-rds be
red hot, seven nine, chasing after me
[casine kelly:]
it’s brooklyn all day, the livest borough, we thorough
and they rock, corrupt the streets, drugs all pile up to murder
the boy mouth talk greasy like motor oil, twist a jr
shake, red hot n-gg-s, it’s hard boiled
o press, by the streets combat, i’m reppin’ to eat
by any means, when we roll, cold killas, you coward
just lose focus, bang heat focus
enemies left in the powers of beholders
just cut open, n-gg-, ya life ghosted
got spotted by hitmen from nostrand
slam the scope, it’s murder, m-th-f-cka, choke
f-ck this rapping sh-t, i’m turning out the bit
hagada, hagada, hagada, wrap my guns with it
[chorus x2]
[shake-a-vel:]
shake-a-vel, the name is monumental on brooklyn streets
who known to let the llama spit, they strapped with heat
like me and my conglomerate, you counterfeit
when the drama’s lit, i put the mack to your mama sh-t
i come with the man power, wet your block up, we given ’em lead showers
still fronting, rocking a vest, when i’m head hunting
won’t stop dumping, til ya casket closed
b-st-rds froze, mercenary sn-tch your soul
my strikes so vital, it twisted your whole hood
i’m taking the t-tle, cats wishing that they could
be legendary, respected by cold killas and crooks, when
walking the mean streets of brooklyn
[chorus x2]
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