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lirik lagu re-up intro – re-up gang

[intro: pusha t]
r-e-u-p-g-a-n-g
r-e-u-p-g-a-n-g
r-e-u-p-g-a-n-g
r-e-u-p-g-a-n-g
r-e-u-p-g-a-n-g
r-e-u-p-g-a-n-g
r-e-u-p-g-a-n-g
r-e-u-p-g-a-n-g

[verse 1: pusha t]
young, obnoxious, hand on our crotches
swagga out of this world, call us the diddy-boppers
f-ck the sh-t out your girl, let the city watch us
hit her with the dougie like cam’ron
move b-tch, move b-tch; throw that sh-t, my jam’s on
white lambo, hear them fans blow
black interior, i’s a modern day sambo
so n-ggerish, they flow’s frivolous
tickle us pink like white girl cl-toris
f-ckin’ the game up, re-up, them n-ggas deceive ya
we get ’em for thirteen fiva, we don’t believe ya
my reputation carry stripes in hood, i am zebra
f-cker! neither, you nor your man’s my caliber
i challenge ya, the cocaine balancer
we hear you from afar, i silencer
neighbourhood p

[verse 2: sandman]
dig it, i’m in a rage like cujo
y’all wanna wrestle, play sumo
murk your b-tch -ss on my uno
you know, sh-ts from the two blow all other n-ggas faces
we take all other n-ggas places, ‘scuse us
no excuses, lain like confucius
don’t confuse us, we really do this
re-up’s ruthless, ain’t much to prove this
two clips, not pusha and mal’
the two holdin’ the rounds, the cl1ck-clack and the pow
talk foul, get slapped in ya mouth, p-ssy
when i’m around take it back in the house, p-ssy
and i’m flossin’ too, big drawn with an igloo arm that’s blue
sky-like, i’m high like giraffe -ss
crack -ss, re-up, what y’all mad at?

[verse 3: malice]
this ain’t nothin’ but candy from a baby
i sell that sh-t, got ’em stuck since the 80’s
y’all ain’t even thinkin’ ’bout stickin’ to format
y’all n-ggas tellin’, ooh-ooh’ing like horshack
singin’ with the band with snares and high hats
and it ain’t slow as no we kept hunting for more crack!
we ain’t holla back, n-gga we holla black…
card era, second coming taking ya back
and it’s a known fact y’all tired of the circus
so come home where you smell the crack in the verses!
the whole rap world watched the clipse take a bow
we left it in ya hands, you ain’t make father proud!
none of y’all can copy—a hard act to follow
we was cursed with the spirit of verses, the stigmata!
suicide bomb ya, like mohamed atta
or the doors on that phantom, re-up, we rap martyrs, what?

[verse 4: ab liva]
black card exclusive, member of the secret society:
it’s not just music that i barter with
tape tight on the soft ya chef to get harder with
art of it, mastered the flame that they solder with
“young’un, you could learn”—liva coach-carter it!
i was a part of it, loiter in the wool
ritz thirty paces from work, i thirty grand, two shirts
“chez a re-va jeux tee” scribbled in the wool st-tch
three quarter blazer;
sharp like a single edge razor on them gemstars
breaking that beige up
now i’m an arm left of the best as we conquest
the rest of the rap game, you listen in vain n-gga
got lil’ bad b-tches emilio pucci;
sitting on blades like kristi yamaguchi
in the sl two-seat; six-inch heels by gucci;
when a player land ma scoop me
no luggage i shopped in, california sun on my skin
as the rocks blind traffic that i’m in
i’m magic with the pen; i’m jordan in the booth
i’m ‘melo with the flow; lebron; i’m the truth

- re up gang

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