Lyrics:

Feat. Force MD's, Masta Killa, Tiffany [Tiffany] Bobby, I'm tired of yo' shit, nigga! I'm tired of you comin' in at 3 o'clock in the mornin' Nigga, you got a family here You act like you don't f**kin' know that shit Nigga, what the f**k? [RZA {*overlapped by chorus*}] Yo, yo, yo, yo.. Growin' up in crazy Cali Yo, yo, yo.. [Chorus 1 - Force MD's] Digital, these niggas should be crazy Growin' up as a Brooklyn baby Bedstuy, this is my life.. [RZA] Yo, yo, yo.. A Brooklyn baby, I was bron up in King's County Inside the womb seven months before the Queen found me Up in wroughty Brownsville with fiends around me Now roam gat in Staten with Cream Team around me They called me Bobby, cousin, really got the black Harley Taught his son how to spike cats like Lee Harvey Oswald, all's well that ends well My big brother Divine, he pushed the Benz well I got the cherry Range, broke and rockin' heavy chains I'm from the tribe of men who would bury Kings On the back of the A-train, my daydream Should I make a phat hit or should I take CREAM? From the Clan that taught you Cash Rules I make soul grind tracks, you grab ass too Give respect to the Prince when he pass through Might have a chocolate deluxe in a glass shoe Cousin Billy, known to strap the black uzi Two-two in front of the Jakes like Jack Ruby Live on TV where you see B-O-B-B-Y D-I-G-I-T-A-L, A-L, things ain't too well [Chorus 1] [Chorus 2 - Force MD's] Digital, these niggas should be crazy Growin' up as a Brooklyn baby This is how I live my life.. [Masta Killa] Yeah.. Peace Lafyetee, Stuyvessant, Malcolm X Shot dice on green, we live from Calasky y'all It's Fred Glassy, zig-zag-zig through traffic Get the herb, get the God, peace Ra' What's the word on things? Through the phone I heard the bangin' sounds in the background, layin' down I'm spittin' what the people missin' We extreme with the murder type theme Don't sleep, get ya head split to the white meat Big guns, down South we blaze Shippin' bodies back up North, it's the Weston Wild Texan, no trespassin' Long mics hit the dead arm Planet Earth, home of Islam Brooklyn, I was physically born, clothes torn Rough tacklin' the streets, Allah Math' spine Technics We bring heat to the block party, drinkin' Bacardi Baggin' shorties for the homies who ain't here [Chorus - both to fade] [Tiffany {*overlapped by chorus*}] Bobby, that's right, you ain't shit, nigga You ain't shit, but a big dick and a mothaf**kin' cheque All that f**kin' Brooklyn shit, Shaolin shit Nigga, grow the f**k up! What the f**k is up with you, nigga? You ain't shit, nigga Comin' in high off that shit What the f**k? I'm tired of yo' shit What the f**k is that shit anyway? What the f**k? And your cousin Billy, I'm sick of that mothaf**ka That mothaf**ka could never come up in this mothaf**kin' house ever again He's a criminal mothaf**kin' gangsta, see that shit? A criminal, I'm sick of that shit I'm sick of yo' shit, Bobby {*echoes*} Brooklyn this, Shaolin that What the f**k, nigga? I don't know why I love your stupid ass anyway Pssh.. but I do love you Bobby