Buckshot, Sean Price, Joe Budden Freestyle on DJ Clue

[Verse 1: Buckshot] Just when you thought it was safe to relax Buckshot in the spot, push your weave back Picture me in the broke position How you want it, you can get it Buckshot wit’ it, hope you dissing And your magazine got magazines for your faggot team When you see the red dot that’s that beam I see a lot of changes around me Yeah the mill’s could be gone but the change is around me I’ma get it, crown on my arm fool wit’ it who wit’ it? Drop jewels wit’ it, now y’all wanna be cool wit’ it I gave you that ‘cause you gave me this Buckshot, original MAC, I’m taking ‘em back, back [Verse 2: Buckshot] As the sky darken The streets cook up the beef and these streets breed the marksmen, peep Eyes wide open as the god shot focus Leave ‘em hopeless I’m hoping y’all wanna run up to my spot now I bucks ‘em down, must get Buck with Down That’s like Def Jam with no Russell now, picture that Get ya’ gat, hold ya’ heat Four three two one get ready to roam the streets It’s not a game, it’s not the same Now is not the time for me to talk in vain talk to ya’ man Nahm saying, [?] And that’s how it’s cracking now on this side of things, I’m riding with flame Franklin Avenue riding the same, it’s a kinfolk thing Original Kimbo king, uh Put ya’ body in motion shottie is coasting, get rid of a lot of you boasting, now Relax yourself, ask yourself Am I the boss or the help, [?], well Right now, it’s a wrap diss me I won’t diss you back I’ll put this in your back [Verse 3: Sean Price] Overall I’m not with the swine dining, the Glock in divine lining Watch what you say or get popped in your spine rhyming Go toe to toe and get popped if you mind dying Then I go cop a watch and then top it with fine diamonds Put my, on top of your dime, grinding Know not to box with Rock you die trying Go to the spot but the cops be like eyeing Then I go get knocked for the crops and diamond linin' Yo, I don't talk about the coke I got ‘Cause most of the coke that I got came from folks I shot I don't give a what if you’re Blood or you loc a lot Mess with me, ya’ head'll have a open top I go to the Vatican with the most potent rocks Unload Colombian shh off the boat in blocks Tell my man Buckshot come and tote the Glock While I, give out samples hope the pope’ll cop Yo wop-bob-ba-baloo-bop dawhap-bam-boom Cops got a few Glocks and popped Amadou [Verse 4: Sean Price] Starting to roam Grab gun, barkin' the chrome Hold Glock, globe-trot like Meadowlark in the zone I ain't tryna be the king, give me part of the throne Split the chips between Sean Price, Carter and Combs Oh you dumb-ass cats know I'm smart with the poems Call your crib, you ain't shh duke and fart on the phone Send my man in jail some money for a carton of bones Next time hit off your seed ‘cause he starving at home Pardon me holmes [Verse 5: Buckshot] Killing every nigga in sight Put, one in ya’ trunk one in ya’ headlight Watch y’all thought I’d fade away ‘Cause my records don’t get played today That’s minor, I get paid in a major way Cut bricks with razor blades The platinum Cartier wood frames lace the face Paper chase I’m Franklin, what you thinking, you know I regulate Dudes violate they vegetate, aggravate Aggravated assault, I caught a court case from my label Tryna make moves on my table, under my table That’s when I play Clark Gable God with the wings, stolen the budget gone with the pens Swollen they chin get dropped do it again Dudes can’t stand my headache But they know Buck’s [?] so they ban my [?] Like Black Moon shh, who on his shh? I put, two in his shh and ruin his shh Mother-uh, screwing his shh That’s Buck doing his shh, and pursuing the chips Let’s put two in his whip [Verse 6: Joe Budden] I just been sitting back watching from afar Thinking of myself, dudes is following a broad Dudes is, woah, like I can’t find your whereabouts and have ten cars follow Blade out ready to make dude a Gemstar model Over for foes, it’s over he knows and by the way a real killer’ll never wear his uh, uh Only copycats like it, they sit and they think he probably that hyper ‘Til I speed dial a copycat sniper One gun, two gun, pull ya’ steel Hit pops in love wit’- G’s whatever a heat-seek genius whatever You and Saddam son could sleep together Why I try to stay away from you fags White T never jersey, I don’t want no nigga name on my back I’m back, from Queens to Jersey, mean and dirty The fo’-five’ll make them jeans Moschin’ you heard me SC what’s good? NC what’s good? Jay-Z what’s good? Houston what’s good? Dying for dudes to spit it, not lying I’m wit’ it Joe be the reason club bouncers check the lining of ya’ fitted, uh Deading your people, weapon’ll see you You searching, looking for guns this ain’t Resident Evil Young dudes y’all compare me to I’m better than them And dudes got- oh, hold up Now you can- uh, yeah [Verse 7: Sean Price] Benjamin Banneker, Afrika Bambaataa Boom bap bip in your medulla oblongata You, think you nice but I know somebody hotter With a crackhead mother and a piece of shit father, Sean P Niggas tryna free Mumia I'm unravelling roach clips, tryna free this reefer Got a Boot Camp hat on, Wu-Wear shirt Funkmaster Flex Lugz lookin like a, jerk No money, clothes bummy, nose runny Bent Metrocard, fo’-fo’ blow dummies I hop on the train in front of the cops Popping they brain, confronting the cops Yo, stating the facts, no hating you wack Throw the 8 to your back and then skate wit’ ya’ trap, listen My peoples is back, you don't believe me though Playing games and get caught, coco-levio Hot peas and butter, cop trees on Sutter With your knock-kneeded mother, yo I'm one of the best you one of the worst Gun on your chest blood on your shirt Son it's berserk, yo Peep the tools of the trade I run with Puerto Rican cats that fool with the blade That’s a stereotype, never stereotype No radio songs for me, stereo type You’s a mother-Rucking son of a bitch Always telling the cops, like ya’ pops, you a son of a snitch I don’t run with mother-, who be running they lip Percolate with the pound and get it crunk in this bitch [Verse 8: Joe Budden] It’s Mister, punch and get p-punch and punch and punch and get punched and get p-pump it up Now let me check the check to see if it’s still breathing, when I kill it Clue tell me if it’s numb or what Let me sum it up to what he is about Still new to most, they still feeling him out Things were type bland, Joey seasoned ‘em out The nicest dude out since Reasonable Doubt Hate me traitor I’m the new school Zack Morris while all of y’all are A.C. Slater’s Rap dudes it’s ya’ first day to be a waiter I’m not letting y’all eat, y’all could make me cater, uh And comparisons hurt ‘Cause every new MC I’ll put him right in a Garrison hearse And rap money’s better than having to work I’ma get things crackling first You know I do it like stop drop, oh Cop lock, no, three hops and a cot for Joe it’s not a go Ah ah, oh, ah ah, caca, uh, and Shock Top [?], woah I gotta know, when the cocked Glock blow Who want what with the on-top jock, show? Who stop lock load like you can’t get seen You wan’ jump here’s a trampoline And don’t come by yourself, I want dude to get amped with his team You wanna play Popeye here’s a can of them greens Now nigga now it get real Joe the only one that kept the line in the middle on the counterfeit, bill And y’all wanna hound the kid still Punk punks, still the best young gunner y’all counterfeit still [Verse 9: Sean Price] I carry the chrome Understand me? Yo, you get ya’ ass whipped that quick, Marion Jones The god, leap hurdles while chiefing the deep purple Welcome to the decathlon of the rapper Sean Yo, African black from Timbuktu Clap at you cats, stomp you out now my Timbs scuffed too I’m the type to clap six at your front Smoke a blunt on your porch then support Black History Month Listen, I’m red black and green with the fist But I’m red when the black and green get mixed in the spliff Dig, yeah, you ain’t a Rasta You Italian duke, you ain’t a mobster You a bum sipping tea by the bayou Made a dress with some sheets like Erykah Badu I drop-kick bitches like that Nigga I pop shh and spit it on raps, Sean P [Verse 10: Sean Price] No question I’m ill, Sean Price be the best in the ‘Ville Ask Flood it’s all love until the TEC in your grill Slapping you five, what up pa, slapped with the nine Vehicular homicide, you get smashed with the ride I don’t, if you a Benz or a hoop dog I will come through and 1-8-7 ya’- Living a lie, smoke weed, lifting the lye high Get popped eye living the lie high goodbye Acrobatic with flows, grab the gat and I go Back to the crib where ya’ slid in the Craftmatic with hoes, P A goddamn psycho killer That might blow like Michael’s Thriller given the chance Nahmean?