Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Poisonous Taoist, artist - Afu-Ra. Album song State Of The Arts, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 13.06.2005
Record label: Decon Media
Song language: English
Poisonous Taoist |
«Poisonous taoist!» |
«Afu-Ra!» |
«The body of the life force!» |
The body of the life force, scientifical street nigga |
I walk with a limp, no pimp sign, I’m an urban gorilla |
Rough and rugged, plus I keep it realer than realer |
Stomp these streets, I’m known as a mic killer |
With vintage lines, that vintage rhyme |
Black circles around rap camps, I be the lord of the rhyme |
Whose the prettiest, baddest mo’fo, know down |
G-O-D, Blackie Chan, watch me shut it down |
Incredible, my credit is credibly credible |
Put hoes up in the track, like heavy metal do |
Cats act up, I hit 'em with the John Woo |
Yo, I chop 'em up, hit 'em up, and rip 'em up |
The Lion King’s in town, boy, it’s murder on the sound boy |
So line your favorite cottage rappers to sing it |
Like Keith Murray; |
my Def Jams, they will get in ya |
I slice and dice my competition like a ninja |
Now let me introduce you, to the man, the myth, the mental |
Influential, bi-centinial, lyrical spiritual material |
Hittin' you like a literal miracle |
Settin' fire to the streets, that’s my ritual |
Fossils of my rap book, left for anthropoligists |
Show 'em how amazing the jazz, I’m blazing the hooks |
Heavily heavily, intertwine with the melody |
Deadly deadly, kill the tracks with my medly |
Give me that mic fool, you only stuntin' and frontin' |
Fluffin' and bluffin', and ain’t sayin nothing, stop fronting |
The way I shoot the gift, I’m sick with this |
I make crowds flip, I’m a hip hop therapist |
And you can do the hustle, freak ya body, bounce |
But I gotta spit fire, so I’m sure to give ya every ounce |
I’m worth my weight, and gold and all it’s luster |
Step up in the place (Woo-Hah) like I’m Busta |
Hold up, wait, the sound’s kinda knocking |
Dreaded they up in the club, let’s get it poppin' |
Jolting compositions as if I was a virus |
One breath to raise the dead, don’t try to ride this |
And of course, I take it back to the hood |
Afu riggedy Rasta-hood, raw like a porno is |
Slim brother, but I dip like a corn fiddle |
Trey eight, snubnose, type of flow, get a gun, though |
I’m nasty, as a cannibalist |
I eat rappers, alive, as if my name was Hannibal, kid |
Perverted Monk, medicating in the cut |
Flying guillotine raps, aiyo, I cut shit up |
Masterin' the art, technique dichotomy |
Straight up yo, I’m bout to catch a body like Gotti |
At home in my zone, who feel the ecstasy |
Explicitly, the lyrical telepathy |