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?