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Comin' from the left, now here's a little somehin' |
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I slapped together just for you and your weak posse |
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I dedicate it to those who don't know |
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That I'm a maniac straight from the heart of Low Pro |
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And for a livin' I break necks of punk chumps who slipped |
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Matter of fact, I should bust you in the lip |
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But nah, I ain't livin that way, so bro |
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I rather slap you with knowledge as I go solo |
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Hey yo, Aladdin, what's up with all these wanna-be |
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M-i-c fake controllers takin over the scene? |
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They don't know who I am, the young boy and yours truly |
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Step off, new jack, you're just a new Rudy |
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Of rap, you're bound to get slapped steppin to me |
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Strunger than a smoker on PCP |
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I cannot lose, I got the downest deejay in the world |
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Aladdin break the needles while the Technics twirl |
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Hey yo, I know there's nowadays a lotta rappers holdin a mic |
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Wastin time but naw, they ain't hype |
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They same old styles, yo, with the same old things |
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And at shows the same old wack routines |
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I like runnin on stage and clownin MC's |
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So when you see me at a show, don't even step to me |
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Be alert, cause the W will spin the chart |
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You can't touch me, boy, I come straight from the heart |
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Most MC's nowadays, they don't come from the heart |
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They rap what the record label wants |
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But why can't I talk about the way that I'm livin'? |
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Yo, day by day suckers robbin' and stealin' |
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Bein shot at, stabbed, that ain't nothin' to me |
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Just another damn way of l-i-f-e |
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But then again I ain't supposed to even mention a gun |
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Or I be charged with corruptin' the mind of a young one |
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Yo, that's wack, what up with showbiz? |
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Bannin' my shows cause I tell it like it is |
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If I was rich, then I'd rap about a Lamborghini |
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Got some pretty women in grip-tight bikinis |
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But I ain't, like I first said from the start |
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I'm a muthafucka, I come straight from the heart |
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Anxiety is buggin' me to cold get ill |
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Grab a bat, engrave on a sucker face 'Louisville' |
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But naw, I better chill that ain't the life to live |
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Couple years in the county bread and water for a meal |
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Over what? A peasy knuckleheaded MC |
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Who doubted my ability, y'all know what I mean |
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The kinda suckers who brag, yo, you know who they are |
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They make one wack record and think they a star |
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Suckers gettin airplay, but the record ain't kickin' |
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You punks doin' shows for Kentucky Fried Chicken |
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Every rapper now wanna wear a clock on his neck |
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There's one Flavor Flav, so give it a rest |
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Hey yo, Aladdin, help me out, rip the record apart |
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Pay attention, I come straight from the heart |
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*Cold get stupid* |
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Power, pat, rhymes are goin gold |
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More soul, bro, than the Angelist David Saphro |
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I come straight from the heart with the rhyme |
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Givin suckers like you and him a piece of my mind |
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Conditioning my dome to wax and tax suckers who're wack |
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Where's the milk, I eat you up like applejacks |
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To describe myself three words to tell |
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Hm - the W is crazy as hell |
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Back in the streets of L.A. I be rockin' |
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And you can find Aladdin cuttin records in Compton |
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Though we ain't from the same city, we're down |
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You got beef with that, punk, you're bound to get clowned |
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Suckers in line to get dissed, I'm ballin my fist |
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Who's next up to taste some of this? |
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Hysterical, critical, flexible lyrical ?????? |
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Yo, MC's can't hang, boy, I put em in a hospital |
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You shoulda known from the jump or the start |
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Every lyric I throw I come straight from the heart |
