Hollyhood to Hollywood (feat. Small World)

(Small World)

Blame, blame, whose dat with you again?

(The ride, the ride)

Yes black, where's my jewels at?

(Uptown, uptown, uptown, uptown...)

(Wyclef Jean)

Yo, let's get back to the hardcore right now

Underground hip-hop yo

(french singer)

Elle a toutes les qualités, mon grand défaut c'est de t'aimer...

This one's a gangsta tune, whassup Fosha?

I'ma send this one out to all the refugee gangs around the world

Signal, signal, y'all need to chill with the driveby's

(french singer)

arrête, arrête ne me touche pas!...

It was the Fourth of July I heard the cherry bomb bang

Stay in the house that's the sound of the gangs, Clef

By the time we figured out what happened

I was in an ambulance tellin my cousin keep breathing

(Chorus: Wyclef Jean)

Don't wear your colours here, that cemetery gear

I got my gun and nine, killing's my appetite

(but that ain't right y'all)

DON'T WEAR YOUR COLOURS HERE!

That cemetery gear (California, California)

I got my gun and nine from Hollywood, to your neck of the hood

(Wyclef Jean)

True, true, yo Hollywood got a lot of kids twisted

Jumpin in and out of limo's thinkin is his ass really gifted

The only gift y'all possess is workin with the triple six's

Y'all disguise yourself with bandanas and diamond necklaces

Mosta y'all can't even go back to the hood where y'all grew up

Actin like y'all drink alcohol and all y'all do is throw up

Talk about when y'all blow up y'all gonna visit the project floors

But the last time they saw y'all was 1984

Now y'all wonder, why they got all hoodies screamin "freeze"

Get out the navigator, Godfather III's in the DVD

They hoppin, they take your car for a spin

It's cold outside so all you feel is the wind

There's no celly phone, so you can't phone home

Oh lord, here come those criminals Maleeg & Jerome

("Yo, who you know here, you got family over here?")

He a rap artist

("I don't care, he got the wrong colours over here, no fear")

Now you look shook like that Mobb Deep song

I'm surprised, cause on all y'all records you was Al Capone

And come to find out that you never held a chrome

And you escaped the draft and never bust a shot in Vietnam

Now you standin in the form amongst the children of the corn

Like the Sun of Man stood with a crown made of thorns

The only difference is for you there'll be no resurrection

Cause it's a traffic jam, they got you locked up in a intersection

(Chorus: Wyclef Jean)

Don't wear your colours here, that cemetery gear

I got my gun and nine, killing's my appetite

(but that ain't right y'all)

DON'T WEAR YOUR COLOURS HERE! (Colours)

That cemetery gear (Chicago, Chicago)

I got my gun and nine from Hollywood, to your neck of the hood

(Small World)

Yo, Hollywood has half-man be hollow to you

How could you have slipped through

while I was detecting the trick that's in you

Pretending you pitbull, when really your candy-ass is poodle

We wouldn't of hit you, hammers have already been

cocked and cleaned, yo, it was who?

It's click-up, click-up, north cackus, commence to stick up

That's what's within us, cack and lack, clap, buck killers quicker

Stick up the forest misters then head up to chickens with 'em

Adrenaline's givin, when I riff with the fifth to your chin-in

You never knew bout how we play these innings

But you about to play the commission

Waves are spinning, I'm out the glaze I'm sh...ing

The real is missing but the fraud is evident

ever so clear, but you got the nerd to come around here with pounds of fear

Your colours wrong you must rock edible dons with that huh?

Damn Paul, what's that huh?

Let me get that, with the quick snatch

If it's a little man in you then I better put the trick back

And if it's anything killers is fearing, I know my clit stacked for realer

(Chorus: Wyclef Jean)

Don't wear your colours here, that cemetery gear

I got my gun and nine, killing's my appetite

(but that ain't right y'all)

DON'T WEAR YOUR COLOURS HERE! (Colours)

That cemetery gear (Detroit, Detroit)

I got my gun and nine from Hollywood, to your neck of the hood

(Outro: Wyclef Jean)

Tell the FBI that I won't be home tonight

Tell the Secret Service I won't be home tonight

Colours, put away your colours whoa, colours...