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Roots, The

The Lesson, Pt. 1

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Текст песни Roots, The - The Lesson, Pt. 1

Roots, The - The Lesson, Pt. 1 слова песни

Verse One: Black ThoughtLyrically versatileMy rap definition is wildI wrote graffiti as a juvenileRestin on deuce treyAnd used to boost gray Kangol`swith 555 Soul`s from the streetsof the Ill-a-delphiadaic insaneFor monetary gain, niggaz is slain on the trainIt`s homicideFor wealth stealth missions for crackIn the alleyways, where niggaz get grazed in the backFrom stray shotsClips with hollow tips, for your spine orEither remain calm, catch a rhyme, to your mindNiggaz ya know my styleI run a--motherfuckin-rap--mukWhen Malik get a U-Haul truckI stand five, foot seven, in command of the partyand scam like Uncle SamI`m never caught up in the glass eyeof your action cam, cause I`m down lowArtistic exquisite rap pro, that get the doughIt`s the Philly borough dreadthoroughbread for doloI bag solo, like a nigga that boost PoloSteppin through the corridor, of metaphorsLookin over my leftShoulder the mic, still feel colder than beforeWith this jazz shit I hit your jawDice Raw, get up on the mic, my young poorI be the nigga blowin up the spot on tourSurely real to the core, old school like eighty-fourI never die, and raps till my lungs collapseThen relax until my knack for tracksBring it back, on timeWhen I rhyme my rep remainEither go against the grain or your ass is found slainI overcome, niggaz want styles then I throw you someShow you some, get on the mic and take it over sonDice Raw, the motherfuckin Wild NoidGet on the mic and perpetratin is voidVerse Two: Dice RawYa leave niggaz missin in action like their dads in the projectsMy style like an old mac, travel round and catch wreckI`m ill versatile, with the skill no moreWack MC`s wanna flex but their styles they boreGot to know the real meaning of the ill shit, kidI do mad damage but never will catch a bidWith my knapsack, full of ill shit that I just boostedFrom the corner store when I let loose moreFlavor that`s me, rippin heads off from the seamsNiggaz didn`t play like Jeru and Come Clean[he heh ha ha ha] I beat down on they heads like drum machinesOr 808`s cause my style flows out greatAnd superspectac, with all the raw rapPull a metal chair out my knapsack across your back ka-crackNow do you feel the pain of courseI guess you`re believin that I`m insaneWhen I`m taggin my name, upon the train I got so much prideI got so much soul, with lyrics highTo make niggaz stop drop and roll, now check me out one timeFor your ass, fat styles equivalentof an AIDS infected Glock blastNiggaz know my style, plus they know they want moreProps from Mount Vernon, to Mount RushmoreOK kid, you know my style is buckwild literatureThat you can never get when I`m thinkin your particularflavor that you wantI sit back and smoke a fat blunt in classTeachers can kiss my ass, I`m twice, DiceNigga de Raw, never take a bad fallSmack your head up against the wallLike playin handball, my style`s illI slam like Hulk Hogan, Dice Raw bettin on my armNiggaz know my slogan while I breathe your last breathNiggaz better watch they step, fat bull catch wreckIll, gots ta keep you in checkWith the hellified beats and hard rhymesNiggaz know my style, when I go the whole nineI beat down punks, cut em up into fruit chunksLike fruit salad, my style`s smooth like white owlBlunts, so whatcha want if you got beef then come get itif ya don`t well then forget itMy rap style`s exquisite, I`m Raw DaddyLike niggaz with no Trojans on the stage when I rhymeI gots ta keep, my composureWhere I`m from it`s like a whole different worldHoppin a train honeydip and I`ma snatch your squirrelMost corrupt, motherfucker in the tenth gradeJuvenile cause Jeff McKay could not fadeDon`t ask me honey I`m not the one for stressinIf you wanna know better ask BR.O.Th.E.R ?Cause he know the time like I know the timeWhen I grab the microphoneIt`s like, summertime, laid back, to reclineIn my La-Z-Boy chairDice Raw, the Wild NoidI`m the fuck up outta here

Другие песни Roots, The:

Roots, The - The Lesson, Pt. 1
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