Lisa Lipps Lyrics

Cru - Lisa Lipps Lyrics

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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 bitche's with the skunk

Nat "King" Cole was a merry old soul

Made you move that ab, drop shit 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 buttocks, ass 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 fuckin chickenheads

Word to the mother drop dead brest fed

You better duck down when I draw my 8 luger

Scoop that ass quickie, better skin bag of booty



[DJ Footlong]

What goes on ya heard?