Print

(feat. Keith Murray) Yo, yeah, uhhhh Yo whattup? Yo, it's the lyrical lexicon The matador of metaphor Mista Keith Murray Chillin with my nigga Funk Flex Word up Got the Squadron, word up Word up, check it out, check Now, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo It's the return of the lyrical lunatic, still kickin rough shit What you say? I slap your stink ass, bitch I shape and build my skill like an architect Teflon style, rhymes be Gortex I'm the highest exalted ruler on the mic with props All this over hippin the hop bullshit gon' stop It beez Keith not Bill, Murray not Sweat Your politics be politically incorrect We keep it hot like sauce, flows be definite like well OF COURSE Def Squad cough a rough course You weak wack niggaz can't do me none Five hundred, radiant height I run with the sun Apparently, you need to check my pedigree SongtexteAnd do the knowledge to the S-C-I-E-N-C-E Fake ones fear it, real ones cheer it Cause they all feel me from the womb of the human spirit With logic and reasons I justify my means See you on the scene, fuck you up like Tyson did to Mitch Greene In fact black yeah it beez like that If you kill my dog I'ma slay your cat The supersonical genitonical astrochronical Splatter crews, all you hear is ahhs and oohs Time to face the music bring you down to Earth like Papa Smurf I'm World Wide like on the Web, in your turf With full fledged raps packed with anxiety attacks for those who thought I wouldn't be back With that bone chillin horror, killin all ongoin drama Save the rah rah for your mama Bragga-tocious, prone to static Come through the studio, wreck the mic by force of habit Tantalizing, make you feel good like crying I can't be dissed, so you can stop trying And Keith Murray will prevail And you can eat a shit sandwich and go to hell Aus Songtexte Mania