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Yo |
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Big ups to 91.5 live from cold K-dub |
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Just reminding all my guys in the world to stay up |
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Never had to spray slugs so I don't play thug |
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Or try to fit with the killers like O.J.'s glove |
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Still cats love to see me like they own pay stubs |
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Out to create buzz |
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Know that S.K. can shake clubs |
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Like car thieves or golfers |
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Crazy compulsive |
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Cold killer so ill |
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I'm giving competition ulcers |
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These fierce frenetic poetics pierce the pathetic, plagues |
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My powerful prophetic phonetics penetrate |
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This renegade relic raps rugged and demonstrates |
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How to scoop honeys with nothing but that angelic face |
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Aesthetic-based waste get shredded, I set it straight |
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For the hapless half-wit homies that hesitate |
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The hellagreat, elevated skills you celebrate |
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Practice? Kid I've been this ill since seventh-grade |
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I dedicate this to my sis and the crew |
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And thanks for coming out but the competition is through |
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I gets down |
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You suckas and frauds with soft stamina don't trouble me |
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Duck or I'll damage ya on camera publicly |
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When I utter these subtleties |
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Brother please |
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I'm the biggest thing out of Canada since Pamela's double-D's |
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Colleagues and critics all apply the accolades |
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To aptly describe how my flyness fascinates |
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I activate the part of me |
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That advocates the artistry |
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The slick, sharp tongue |
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That could lacerate an artery |
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Like an axe to the heart |
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Hackin' apart cats lackin' the smarts |
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Cuz I've mastered the art |
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I synchronize my syndicate |
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For rhyme syncopation |
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Even skits that I improvise |
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Sit in syndication |
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Let my sinful syntax and simple grin flash |
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Cuz dimes fall victim when my dimples impact |
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Cats listen close for quotes or vibe to it |
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I school dudes and make guys students of my music |
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The dumb sound dopest with their mic lines muted |
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While my I.Q. is so high you couldn't fly to it |
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I get down |
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My language is used |
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To bruise and stick damages to |
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Other bands and their crews |
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'Til all their slick managers do |
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Is just bandage their wounds |
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This man is just too sick for Canada's amateurs |
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I make 'em dudes do flips like coin tosses |
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When I rip mics like loin clothes |
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Stripped off a groin |
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Join the clique or get going |
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Kid you're showing softness |
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I cross kids like Hot Sauce does |
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While impostors talk and jock like Bob Costas |
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This colossus is so pompous it's preposterous |
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I'm always jamming like Peter Tosh's rastas |
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Getting the thoughtless tossed quicker |
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Than The Moffats in a mosh pit, homes |
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I gets down like acrostic poems |
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My resources hold more forces |
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Than the torque on 400-horse Porsches |
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I contort, twist and torch kids |
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With my oral orifice |
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Til these dorks is nothing more than some scorched corpses |
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I get down |
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Yo, I get down |
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It's like I'm squeezing a glock |
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When I creep in the spot |
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People get shot back |
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Freeze and then flop, breathe and then stop |
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The way I leave 'em in shock |
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Forget radio they play my flow on "Believe It or Not!" |
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But I still don't own the keys to the drop |
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Leasin' to cop the beach with the yacht and don't foresee reaching the top |
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But that's cool 'cause I'm frequently jocked from speaking this talk |
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And plus on the streets I get props |
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Well before I leave, peace to the blocks |
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Where my people still beef with the cops |
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And get beaten a lot, it needs to get taught |
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And ask Kanye, Jesus can walk |
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Always reach for the Roc, not the heat to get cocked |
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Releasing the shot, ending a life |
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No need for the pop |
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Ya heard? Like sheep with the flock |
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I get down |
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I get down |
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I get down |
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And yo, Peace to Digs that's how I get down and yo, |
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Peace to Vee that's how I get down and yo, |
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And to the fam that's how I get down and yo |
