R.A.I.D. - Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E.

Man

All I know when we get out

We finna roll

Check this one out

Brothers, do we got bass?

(Yes, we got bass)

Too many busters out there on the streets

We gonna have to take em out

(Go on with it, Ridd)

But before we go on, my name’s Ridd, not Ren

It’s me again, comin out the lock-in

O.M.B., my brother, bring on the bass

There’s dollars to be made and posses to waste

Pass by the hood to pick up the gat

Stop by the studio for the new track

Q Ball rollin, 8 Ball in the pocket

Just bail on stage and pull the mic out the socket

Boo-Yaa dogs (woof!) locked on the canine

It’s '89, it’s time to get mine

This madness, you never had this

Home of the O.G.'s (we threw out all the faggots)

I’m pluggin my microphone with full-equipped lyrics

MC’s smell the smoke of my mic and they fear it

I’m known to be the hanger for the MC’s I hang

I throw a riddle, it come back like a boomerang

We’re not here to play

We’re just here to spray

This is a

Everybody on the dancefloor

(Woof!)

You gotta know this one

If knowledge is power, then I’m muscle-bound

Loc’ed out as a hound, I’m not down in a dog pound

Breakin out, MC’s start fakin out

Boo-Yaa T.R.I.B.E., time to start takin out

MC’s come and MC’s go

For all the MC’s that go is too slow for my .44

I peel em at the frontdo' (*shot*)

(Boo-yaa!) Then I drag em to the backdo'

Then I say, «You want some more, then say no more»

(Why is that?) Because I’m just too hardcore

So you know Ridd packs a .44

Bring on the rap jam and let’s roll

(Put Riddler on the roof) cause I shoot the vics

My mission was to shoot straight to the chicks

I filed a contract, not to confess

Found out that the buster had a bullet-proof vest

(So what did you do?) I had nothin to say

Pulled out my Uzi and I started to spray

Went to the morgue to identify his body

(Yeah, that’s him, ??? posse at the party)

I’m not prankster, word to Godfather, I’m a gangsta

And this is the time I’d like to give thanks to

All my brothers for doin it (their way)

And now it’s my way, we’re not here to play

Boo-Yaa — please, who can match?

Like a purse on Imperial (you will get snatched)

And like a Camel in the county (you will get smoked)

And when the Riddler took the loco toll (that was loc’ed)

Check out O.M.B., my bassman, forget the turntable

(Island) the name of my record label

That’s the reason my jams sound so hard

Cause it’s boomin from a bailin car

Down the boulevard and we don’t stop

Cause all you posses get mopped, get dropped

We rock the party, steal all the ladies

Since it’s '89 we’re in the Eighties

Hit me deuce times

(Woof, woof!)

(Attention, all D. R

This is a R.A.I.D.)

He-he-he-ha-ha