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    RZA
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    We Pop

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    Song Info

    We Pop
    Released

    By RZA

      About "We Pop"

      Lyrics for RZA - "We Pop"

      (woman)
      We pop, we brawl, gettin' money til the day we fall
      We pop, we brawl, gettin' money til the day we fall

      (RZA)
      Double barrel shotgun (blaow), pop son
      I told nigga, just not run
      I saw him on 205th in Fordham
      This dog was frozen, so my high heat thawed him (Wu!)
      I blown ya, you need a blood donor
      My bitch ghetto, like Florida and Laronia (girl)
      Laundry mat hoes, who want clothes?
      I flow checks, one followed by six o's (six o's)
      I got hoes, in codes, in different areas
      Four ton whips that's sittin' on interiors
      The bass shake in the club like it's earthquakin'
      I cock arm, pass the bomb, like Troy Aikman (Aikman)
      Play the basement like Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson
      You miserable, you get kidnapped by Kathy Bason
      Thrown to the dungeon, for your spongin'
      Of Wu Killa Bee, what's your total malfunction?

      (Chorus: ShaCronz & ODB)
      We pop, we brawl, get money til the day we fall (yeah)
      My glock (my glock), my four (my four)
      throw shots through your bedroom door (bedroom door)
      From the P's, to the morgue, cop Louie all the way to my drawers (New York)
      We pop (pop), we brawl (brawl), get money til the way we fall

      (ShaCronz)
      Come on, let's cut the crap, money
      I've been gettin' this rap money
      Crack money, stack money, I'm tryin' to get that Shaq money
      That Mike Tyson, Michael Jordan, Michael Jack' money
      Five hundred mill' and better, dog, yeah, now that's money
      Act funny, ya'll make me laugh (haha)
      Frontin' like you tough, you softer than a baby's ass
      These lazy ass labels -- fuck you! Pay me cash
      My crazy path promoted me into a Mercedes class

      (Chorus)

      (Freemurda)
      Yeah.., all ya'll can see is the back of my jersey
      Blowin' in the wind, goin' back to Jersey
      Off to Brooklyn, left you back in Jersey
      I was doin' a buck 90 like a throwback jersey
      Shame on a Nigga, take it back to Dirty
      Run, game on a nigga, I'll be back in thirty
      Seconds, got the world's greatest record
      And that money I'mma spend it like your greatest record
      This Division, all the ladies respect it
      Disrespect it and the eighty'll check it
      It ain't hard to see how ya'll ignorin' the steel
      Niggas that I clap, lookin' for me still
      Til they look like they came out of George Foreman grill
      Thoughts are stolen on Free, must be on them crills
      Plus my, team gon' be holdin' like forty mill'
      Thoughts are rollin' on E., must be on those pills

      (Chorus)

      SONGWRITERS:
      DIGGS, ROBERT F. / WESLEY, DORSEY / DRAYTON, FREEDOM / DRAYTON, WILLIAM JONATHAN
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