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 [?]
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 Levy, yo
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?