Music Service


by Nine
Lyrics by: Rob Lewis
# Debut Chart
50 Dec '94 Hot 100
32 Dec '94 R&B


Verse One: I gets banned if I do gets banned if I don`t So sometimes I will and sometimes I won`t Puff mad stick crack a forty down the back Sit fat and relax and plan my attack Not the one to test I posess mad finesse My buddha was blessed one bird in the nest Chills with my peeps steady bouncing in jeeps on the New York streets hittin urban concrete I`m the man untestable with the extraterrestrial flow Fo`-fifty-fix celo, pop the top off the forty ounce bottle I`m not the one to follow, I`m not the role model Hollow tips in my clips money grip and my Glock only spits when I react to the bullshit So give me room to breathe and get up off DEEZ And save the confessions for JEESuz Plus I don`t need to hear no sorrow Eff it, the sun will still come out tomorrow Long as I`m breathing, needing, even like Steven Achieving, gettin some cheese and representin lovely, Boogie Down Bronx major with the project flavor, I made ya, daze ya My behavior is mad ill if you front You know what I want!

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Chorus: (Whutcha want Nine?) Fat beats for my rides (So whutcha want Nine?) Mad clips for my nines (So whutcha want Nine?) A ill posse and my name up in lights, N-I-N-E Verse Two: I`ma let you know how I feel on the real I pack steel it`s like a jungle makes me wonder where my eel is Hits the bricks skips the dog shit complete in my cipher Temper like Rowdy Rowdy Piper, hyper like a viper I`ma strike if I got it goin for the jugular Stretch you like a copper Stoppah, stoppah, but you can`t stop me Just clock me, just watch me blow up the spot G Came a long way from, back in the day we did it for no pay, just rhymin hit the hay and sleep, wake up, write another rhyme Hit the park after dark drop the beat one time That`s when shit was real, no phonies no baloney Just the homemade mics and wheels of steel Backup from the roof, amp plugged in the street light Everything right, jam over a street fight Back to the lab I grab my pen and pad Raw lyrics make a fleuredoscad Had no dinero, enough get fo` chicken wings and rice A forty ounce a nickel bag to get nice And now I might make a million, and still son it makes the heart pump, you know what I want Chorus Verse Three: Be like Elmer J. Fudd with the mansion and the yacht Brand new Glock non-stop hip-hop Remote control boombox lampin on my dresser The God ain`t no lesser as the pressure comes to test ya Hundred pound weight around the neck, daily nuff treasons nuff reasons like Philip Bailey Can`t get enough of that funky stuff Rhymin astronomical, original, shit is phenomenal Heat up the ghetto put the pedal to the metal Speed like Racer treat you like a wack rhyme and erase ya Right off the pape I roll a big fat spliff Four-fifth on the hip, Heineken in the grip shit I`m ready Get the keys for the jeep, let`s bounce Cruise avenues, get some brews and sing the blues with the Funkmaster Flex cassette in the deck I`m in effect I move my neck while Son gets wreck Oh what a feeling, I`m on the wheels of steel and I snatch up some skins for some sexual healing Erything`s kosher copasctetic, groovy hip-hop moves me soothes me, I`m letting off like an uzi But first steps a doozy and bruise me Now I`m choosy before I start to freak it like a floozy I wanna get big get paid true stunt You know what I want! Chorus


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