The Beatnuts - Stick 'Em Up lyrics

[Greg Nice] Yo, check check check me out What? Yo yo check me out Stick 'em up, stick 'em up Stick 'em up, stick 'em up, stick 'em up Yo, check check check me out What? Yo yo check me out Stick 'em up, stick 'em up, stick 'em up Aye! [Verse One: Problemz] I'm Chuck D, Public Enemy #1 5-0 said "freeze", picture that when I'm totin' one Chosen one like the Golden Child Fled the scene and left 'em frigid like the frozen aisle n***a you know my style, gettin' bad with a burner I do the Jackie Joyner-Kersee all the way to the house Gettin' head at the window like L. Hars Malik peekin' For crooked cops creepin', tryin' to leave me leakin' I'm not a Puerto Rican but I'm speakin' so that you know The four fifth lift and got more kick than Judo Quatro, tres, dos, uno, blast off like NASA if I have to Captivating like the final chapter Put it on wax and watch the vinyl get scratched up Have 'em Dancing On The Ceiling like Lionel's last cut Like Ned the Wino, out here hustling fast bucks Hit harder than bra** knucks, the City is mad nuts You crazy? [Hook: Greg Nice] {X2} Jump! Jump! Aye! Put your hands in the air Put 'em up high in the atmosphere Matter fact n***a, leave 'em right there Stone cold stick 'em up [Verse Two: Psycho Les] Chumps Jump Up To Get Beat Down and robbed Then snitch to the cops, "It was the Big City mob" I don't be talkin' a lot but I walk with a bop Big bossin' ya, tellin' you to empty out the box Takin' off your shoes, leaving you in socks Off with the j**els, checkin' out the rocks Kept smackin' you, leavin' you with knots Peeling up the block, leave you screaming for the cops Snitchin' my description, I'll leave with gun shots How many times must I tell ya bloodclots? We run this city and we'll run your spot That quick so don't even blink You say "yeah", as we start to rock And put your hands in the air while we go through your pockets It's a stick up kid, I got the Glock to your forehead I warned ya, but you ignored me now hold that [Hook] [Verse Three: Al Tariq] Look how I, grab the hand, dip to Harlem World Other hand on my banger, I ain't trust a girl And I trust no one, ship guns from the south I'll have my little brother Divine, just run up in ya house Put one up in ya mouth, now ya can't speak Can't tell the pigs, "His name's Al Tariq Or is it Tony Smalls? It's Mr. T somethin'." Y'all just frontin', y'all ain't really sayin' nothin' Nothin', nothin', nada Bad b**h at home, she don't rock Prada Won't rock Gucci and she never rock Guess She love the Sour Diesel but she can't stand cess Yes It's the king of upper west Small city, big guns, the ?? is where it's at So watch how ya walkin', watch how ya lookin' Or you'll be stuck up and you ain't in Brooklyn [Hook]