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live it up pt. 2 (black label: hip hop 101 version) - tommy boy black label lyrics

tommy boy black label ft. natural elements * “live it up pt. 2 (black label: hip hop 101 version)”
[emcee(s): l*swift, a*b*tta, and mr. voodoo]
[producer(s): charlemagne]
[additional vocals: charlemagne]

[intro: charlemagne and l*swift]
charlemagne: yeah, charlemagne presents another b*tter joint. i’ve done it again. “live it up pt. 2.”  you know how i do.  mr. voo, a*b*tta, l*swift, here we go
l*swift: alright. ne. uh, uh, uh, ain’t sh*t… ain’t sh*t changed. word up

[verse 1: l*swift]
yo, yo, we try and
live it up, gin in my cup while you’re all in my grill
slip in the cut, don’t fall but it spill. my n*ggas
a and voo called (what the deal?). yo, we’re the three wise men
trying to be rich before i’m three times ten
you don’t need to try to be my friend—n*gga, we’re self*contained
yourself to blame, i’ll shelter the pain
northeast bronx never the same, remain smoking
in east, i’m wilding it out. in the west, we’re straight locing
i peeped you hiding out and your vest get blazed open
proceed to get high to the death and make potions
i need to just slide to the rest and lay scoping, get
sixteen cats on the train with eight tokens, yo
the crew you run with ain’t willing to scr*p with you, get phillies
and macs with you, they’re spilling your fat tissue, i’m spitting
the gat issue, evenly share portions
before i shoot, i stick my tongue out like air jordan
from here to boston, massachusetts, one, two, i think
i lost one. i blast my music, receive my cash
and recoup it. you know the rundown, so hold your gun down
i roll a blunt now, control my funds now, so what now?

[interlude: a*b*tta]
word up, son, we gon’ live it up. word up

[verse 2: a*b*tta]
yo, i still get high
from ny to puerto rico. anthony cruz
a*b*tta? that’s my alter ego. call your peoples, let ‘em know
about the elements show. i still stick hoes
with legs thicker than jennifer lo. gallons of hennessey flow
through my veins and my brains ain’t functioning right
no need to explain, we’re f*cking tonight. i slide
in a sl*t and i got a 9 in your gut. my mind
is corrupt, yup, i’m trying to liven it up
in a bus on my way to riker’s island in cuffs, speeding
leaving life in the dust, and when i f*ck, i’m on some
freak sh*t, ice on my nuts—believe it. my ne
clique rip through your skin like strays, plenty
teen chicks drip when i spit my phrase for my
elements fam and the rest of the clan. oh, i
respect my fans that step in the jam with my
fitted cap tilt to the back, l in my hand, sipping ‘nac
getting wet as i can, falling out. sh*t, it’s
all about money and moves—get crunk, y’all. buck
fifty*one numbing my tongue, i’m drunk y’all
is you with me? then come on, y’all. let’s go

[hook: mr. voodoo, (l*swift), and {a*b*tta}] (x2)
word up, so, yo
open your ears (uh huh), listen up (yeah)
twist one up (uh huh), fill your cup
(hydro!) {twist it up, and if you know}
(like i know), {you’ll be living it up}

[verse 3: mr. voodoo]
i murder things like
serbs under milošević (“think about it”)
‘til we’re all rocking furs like we’re bolsheviks
me and my associates forever radiate and glow
we’re supposed to—sh*t, y’all ain’t know? the m.o.:
my grammar’s in lock, ammo is stocked, hammer is c*cked
to damage and rot feds with cameras and cops. who make
the planet rock? y’all know who can—need we say? the go*to
man like a center in the nba. my dna
got a pistol’s curvature, rappers
getting claps like they was boning a dirty wh0re. it’s a
dirty chore—when it’s time to flip, i got the black
tape on the trigger, the hammer, and the grip. i’m clapping
at kids—abandon your ship. take it to trial, get a
slap on the wrist. i’m capping it crisp but celebrate
like a crooked capitalist. we elevate
look, kid. n0body rapping like this

- tommy boy black label lyrics

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