Yeah, man the flavor, flavor
Yeah!
Ah yeah, who we doing?

[Chorus]
Buck, buckin' 'em down, buck, buckin' 'em down
Buck, buckin' 'em down, buck, buckin' 'em down
Buck, buckin' 'em down, buck, buckin' 'em down
Buck, buckin' 'em down, buck, buckin' 'em down

Ninety-three comin' off with the flicks and the rough shit
Packin' nigga's kicks with black pits
Saber tooth, the truth, ha-coot! spit the juice
And let the hot-ass-lead-loose (*gun shots*)
Let it fly, betty-bye if you're ready to die
Kickin' your ass and you can ask Keith Sweat why
I make your Benz seem obsolete G
Rippin' your ass discretely, if you meet me
Puttin' bullets holes in tents, no fingerprints
You'll catch a slug in your ass while you jump the fence
Another young black man just caught a case
Not from "texa-mase", from gettin' funky like a staircase

[Chorus: x2]

(LL Cool J)
Yeah, what a scene, pullin' a Tech
With an extra magazine out the baggy-ass jeans
Wettin' up the block with mad Tech shots
Drop the glock, puttin' crackheads in headlocks
Like a cheetah with my dig-beaters
Ten millimeter, buck, buckn' you down from my two-seater
Rippin' shit for the brothers who ain't here
Killin' bears and kickin' snitches right off the pier
Glock full of guts, steady buckin' butts
Lettin' moonlight in your head-pull-puds
Def Jam in your ass for the jams
You've got posse, but are you nice with your hands?

[Chorus]

Biggin' them up and the rippin' them up and the [Repeat: x5]
Shakin' them up and the pickin' them up
Biggin' them up and the rippin' them up and the
Shakin' them up and the pick

[Chorus]

Draggin' you flower-ass rappers outta clubs
Thinkin' it pay too much, wet 'em like a dove
But in the slang, in the speech, in the style
Connect, can never be ripped by a suburban child
Gun smoke, bonanza on the block yeah
When all the shit was dead, could of did a bid
Conferring emcee scramble, dismantle
Never gamble and try to handle a vandal
You'll catch a forty upside ya head with ya fake dreads
Tryin' to front like you're packin' lead
Dumb-dumbs are fine in a spiro
And now you got more beef than a jiro
Peep the balistic, kick, slick, quick
Flip a script-a-slips, but that ain't new shit
Burnin' ya crib down!
I'm frontin' personal, he's hearin' how a nine sounds
Busy-quizick, the ?disare? is in
Fizz up his li-life, the visits was borin'

[Chorus: x2]

Copyright: BMG Rights Management, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): Q.D. III, SMITH