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[Intro]: |
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Can I do it? (Yeahh!) Can y'all do it? (Yeahh!) ALL together now! (AAAAAAAAAAHH) |
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[Scratching]: |
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"Oooh, ya love it" |
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[Celph Titled]: |
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If me and some rap faggot have static |
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We can go to war, at your show you'll need flap jackets |
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Strapped with automatics? |
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No we use bats and hatchets |
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Give the microphone a drug test, I spit crack at it (for crack addicts) |
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Approach your A&R with an AR |
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Based on, a true story, I spit H-bombs, in every eight bars |
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When Tony put his face in that snow |
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I was writin' them flavor flows |
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And yeah, even my worst haters know that I'm a player fo' sho' |
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They be like, "Yeah, I'm with ya Titled" |
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Bring bitches back to the pad like a menstrual cycle |
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You walk around like you some kind of thuggy guy |
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I know you ain't Diddy but I can make you see through Puffy eyes |
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[Sadat X] |
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You know my styles boy, you know what I'm workin' with |
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Fire arms of various calibers penetrate |
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I'm the hate that breeds hate |
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Nah, let me illustrate |
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Time stands still on a day that's slow |
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For me it ain't about the show it's about the proof |
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Blow the air from the roof |
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And anything movin' this is a stick up |
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If you fiends even hiccup you layin' flat |
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You wanna face this rage? |
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Somebody threw some meat in the cage |
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Wear armor |
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You can call Obama |
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Call your momma |
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I breed armies, make men out of boys |
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Tactical General Patton from BK to Manhattan |
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You frontin' |
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You lame, treat your whole squad the same |
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[Grand Puba] |
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I don't play when it comes to this |
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I rule the mic with the iron fist |
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Compile data then I make the list |
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Grab the wack, move they ass to trash |
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Then empty trash so they don't exist |
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Since vinyl |
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Words flow like herds of rhinos |
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Leave your ass trampled when I'm runnin' on the sample |
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A showdown at sundown, these verb-als I rundown |
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Will leave your ass dumbfound, you thought you was gunned down |
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Rhyme style mean like a dope fiend lean |
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Cut against the green and you face the guillotine |
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Grand Puba, there's no way you can dodge |
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Better off tryin' your luck at Las Vegas at Mirage |
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[A.G.} |
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Been through ups and downs, never touched the ground |
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Like girls with the big butts, never fuck with clowns |
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Let music take over me |
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Words flow through me |
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Truly the best that's why niggas keep quotin' me |
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I'm the baddest nigga livin', average niggas don't stand a chance |
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I danced in France, put hands and feets on beats |
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Put fans in trances |
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Amsterdam is, a place where I sin |
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Get that Yen in Japan kid |
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The Swiss Mountains, got a Swiss accountant |
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Chick with a fountain pen, keep my chips amountin' to somethin' |
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My grind is unparalleled |
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While y'all niggas keep on horsin' around like carousels |
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[O.C.] |
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I'm mind over |
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As a matter of fact |
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There's no practice needed |
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See, I'm matched bar none |
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When it's all said and done up |
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The last man standin' is proof |
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Who has the biggest brass and bubbas for crafty |
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McGuyver |
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E'vryday things around me work to my advantage |
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Create the plan at random |
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For every livin' soul on the planet understand this |
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As some author's say, "An heir is apparent" |
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I'm that oil piece, priceless art |
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There's no biddin' on it, auction block |
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Fortune of Fort Knox |
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Off top or written |
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Each album takes precision |
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Knocks out solidify win the fight over decision |
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[Diamond D] |
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I got a flow so cold niggas call me chilly |
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Don't ever press up fam, I'll smack you silly |
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If I'm all out of Dutches, I pack the Philly |
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On my J.O.B., I mack the millis |
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And I'm all about stackin' my chips |
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Gettin' dome in the back of the whips |
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Start smackin' them hips |
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All that slick talk will just gets you smacked in the lips |
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Game time fourth quarter, back to the blitz |
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You can't move me, shake me, break me, make me |
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Be somethin' I'm not |
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Niggas wanna snake me |
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I'm right by escape key, writin' X |
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Big Diam still writin' the checks |
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Holla at me |
