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Artist: Buddha Monk & Da Manchuz f/ Juice
Album:  Zu-Chronicles, Vol. 4: Manchuz Dynasty
Song:   Jump
Typed by: Cno Evil

[Intro: Juice]
I'mma just start, ain't got me?
Jump, jump, jump, jump
Jump, jump, jump...

[Chorus: Juice]
I'm tired of dreaming, son, gotta plan shit right
I'm tired of scheming, shit, this nigga dancing with dykes
I'm tired of fiending, shit, can a man see life?
Fights on the Deegan, speeding, is my plan cease light?

I fancy dykes, Honda's, scratchy pipes
Don't affiliate with tacky types, who nasty like
Happy type, the rest don't last tonight
Or end up in the casket right, too many crabs in this game
A nigga like me can't be nice, weed smoke got me happy right
I map the game, monopolize and stack cash and game
Ninety-nine motto, don't surpass the fame
A sooped up head, can make a nigga crash his range
Dash dames off of octane, they clash with lanes
Got 'em ashed out, dancing doing the macaren'
How can a day go by, and I ain't cop no pay
I'm hostile, and what I see, I gots to take
I ain't scared of shit, nowadays, beef be fake
Only thing that really matter, is the figures we make
You thinking the ice on my neck, makes you shiver and shake
I bone like Sharon Stone, then sliver the state
Fuck balling, coaching one the head to quinch ya taste
You like the Gatorade of rap, chew, savor that
Just here to blaze the map, nothing better than that


I'm bout to seperate the game, from the Bears to the Cubs
Combine a hoppin' dime to the hoes in the clubs
Those who bust guns, those who are custom
Those who give fist, or get it through customs
Confederated, investigated, I don't trust 'em
My team is separated, with no association
Move in like murks, with no negotiation
Gutter niggas, don't you dare approach the basement
Hummers and figures, we got numbers and nigga chasing
Loving them figures, we got hundreds and niggas hating
Can't take the heat, the weather, we withstand
We veterans, we peddling, with no kickstand
No brakes, stand back, picture me on the straight and arrow like Amtrak
Trust me, if my niggas pitch, I can't catch
Silver screen niggas but we can't act
No photogenic, sick with the flow
You better call the medic, doc sedatate that fool, thirty-eighty that fool
There's no way in hell you can debate that move
I'm right when I'm wrong, I'm tight with the palm
I'm nice with it, might get it, iced in your arm
Brooklyn, your fantasy, your chick crying on the jack
At the club, leather Pele with a lion on the back
How even trying when I rap, I Heisman on tracks
Quarterback with the automag, no linemen in tact
I got chickens in the streets, who be gunning away
Ghetto chicks sucking dick, like I cum Kool-Aid
Whose to say, if I hold a four-fifth, I spray
These are my golden years, don't like what I say, hold your ears
I spit when I talk and speak, see more pussy than a toilet seat, who want get raw with me
I'm a dog my creeps, cops, haters and crookses
My name is known by local drug dealers and hookers
I like cashing up, but 9 to 5's ain't fast enough
And if this rap shit don't work --- fuck that
I'mma start acting up, blasting up
I want your jewels, your wallets and your shoes, nigga pass it up
I'm no thug, but I am a crook
I got that street buzz, man, I am from Brook
I can get it til ya raw, I can get it til ya cooked
I can get it from the dealership, or get it cooked

[Chorus 2X]

[Outro: Juice]
What's my plan see, til ya see me
Somebody help me, it's dark, man, turn on the lights
You can't see, drop everybody, everybody, everybody
Just, just, just kill, just, just, just kill
Here we go, everybody, everybody, just, Buddha Monk
Candice, Mr. Muff, it's on, Bedstuy, jump, jump, jump
Jump, jump, jump, jump, tired of dreaming, jump