Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Battle Cry, artist - Apathy. Date of issue: 20.12.2010
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Battle Cry |
| I put you up on the IV, not the Roman Numeral 4 |
| But the IV that leads to the funeral floor |
| Wax gets melted; |
| breaks bones, fractures pelvics |
| Speeds through space and cracks glass Astronaut helmets |
| Face it, motherfucker I could pay to get rid of you! |
| I’ve got more heads in the hood than Pagan rituals |
| A new tyrannical force for you to fear |
| Known to kill and keep human ears as souvenirs |
| A shapeshifter, face slitter, paper getter, tape your sister |
| Wake your sister, make your sister, take it in the face |
| And if you’re facin' us, block off a thirty-block radius |
| I throw more blows than boxin' Doctor Octavius |
| Ever since we made some noise I learned people love a winner |
| We the quality of deep dish rims, y’all the hub spinners |
| Tough sinners, break bread with Jesus at dinner |
| Protected by a heavenly force, fuck a minister! |
| Niggas know better, no one’s letter is better than mine |
| Every time I rhyme, it’s metal; |
| the terror level is high |
| Plus I… testify, it’s best you die |
| Then to find the truth deep down in a mountain of lies |
| Downsize, I’m oustin' you guys deep in the dirt |
| Clockin' in and out of rap, have y’all fiendin' for work |
| When I’m breedin', yo it’s treason what the semen is worth |
| Non-believin', make me steamin', make you meetin' the earth |
| Ayo, it’s my world… and I won’t stop |
| And if you stand in my way you bound to get popped |
| In the land where you lay and fade from stray shots |
| I demand that you pay and stray from strange blocks |
| I’m the man that you pray don’t spray the flames hot |
| I could tan in the blaze for days and stain cops |
| I astound and amaze, y’all praise the same god |
| I’mma pound out your brain and scrape the graveyard |
| Have you shout out in pain, y’all say y’all Bravehearts? |
| I’mma box up your frame and play the same card |
| And I’m out for fame, spacebars, and quasars |
| Pharaohs locked the game, no shame, we hate y’all |
| Yeah! |
| Raw muthafuckin' rap! |
| Hardcore shit! |
| '94 shit! |
| Shoot the fuckin' place up, yeah! |
| A-O-T-P, blast through your army fatigues |
| Damage your team, the competition done it with ease |
| Gun in my sleeve 'cause nowadays homicide is my steez |
| Collectin' my cream, I’m livin' your dream and peepin' your scheme |
| Put you on lean from right hooks, pausin' your jux |
| You fake crooks need to hit them books |
| Learn the rules of the game, two to your brain, three to your frame |
| Incredible pain, you gettin' drenched in that «November Rain» |
| We the opposite of that wack shit, trash man, the clack rapid |
| You die tragic, five-six professional assassins |
| Rockin' these mics and reppin' my fam' with passion |
| Remember its Q-Dement', you bastards! |
| Tell your man and your parents, we be demandin' ten grand an appearance |
| At the minimum, my venom damage your lyrics |
| We be like Manny Ramirez, compatible with the radical |
| Magical and emphatical, I’mma battle 'til I shatter your clavicle |
| Call me admiral, raisin' the temp of the room |
| I’m the emperor, remember I’ll never surrender |
| I dismember platoons, your petty men are buffoons |
| We send 'em to their doom the second my venom enters their wounds |
| I mentally bloom, exhume tombs with dope lyrics |
| 2Pac's alive and well, Big L «The Devil’s Son» |
| Rise from hell with dope lyrics |
| Live in regret, A-O-T-P these shook rappers hit the deck |
| Courtesy of the streets, make it a microphone Middle East |
| My speciality, only rhymer envelopin' my lyric sheets |
| Knock turbans off of sheikhs, use a pipe bomb |
| Downtown Israeli boutiques, full of dead tourists |
| With they dreams no longer in arms' reach, that’s what I call |
| Dealin' with calm speech, when I alarm your peeps |
| Inscribed in a peasant’s palm is a blessed psalm |
| If you draw and your weapons wrong, there ain’t no steppin' on |
| My forty-five is my weapon, my culture’s a holster |
| Where seven-inch slugs is kept in, squarely I step in |
| Tiltin' my clips and blue Stetson, God is my essence |
| So you could check these rhymes for reference, adept to any preference, pussy! |
| Yeah, baby! |
| Kings of the motherfuckin' underground! |
| Y’all motherfuckers don’t want it with us! |
| This that raw shit! |
| Throwback shit! |
| I make Evel Knievel music, I come through stuntin' |
| Every verse is the same, just flipped a little somethin'-somethin' |
| Baby, I’m crazy, a crazy baby, a sick infant |
| Born with an intent to spit slick sentences with sick penmanship |
| Shoot at your Chicago fitted and knock your socks off |
| Aimed at your door but hit your head, shot your locks off |
| I heard you was afraid to say my name on your record |
| 'Cause you’s afraid I’d put your motherfuckin' frame on a stretcher |
| I can’t change laws son, that’s a government issue |
| But I’ll break laws with a gun that’s a government issue |
| It’s the Army, we got power in numbers |
| And that’s nines, forty-fives, three-five-sevens, and M500s |
| Some people say I’m superior when I shit it |
| Vivid visionary spit, vocabulary ridiculous |
| I am a tyrant, I’m Violent by Design |
| I silence the scientific with every line of the rhyme |
| Mozart of street rap, breakin' the barriers |
| Space Harrier, filled with forties and pit terriers |
| Ready to mangle, anybody cross a line |
| I saw the sign then ran with the Army, lost in time |
| Ready for war, but won’t rock no dick trees |
| I rock mic’s, you think it’s a hundred and sixty degrees |
| Who stomp crews, batter and bruise cliques |
| Kill bitches and stab you tricks… with loose lips (yeah!) |
| I’m slightly disturbed, Pazienza is nice with the words |
| That’s the reason that I’m fly like the life of a bird |
| I don’t care if you dead, let God have ya |
| 'Cause I’mma stay rugged and raw like Marv Hagler |
| That’s something you don’t know about you small rapper |
| Nice with the left, nice with the right, the jaw tapper |
| Allah backer, murder every track that I’m on |
| You just spit a fuckin' verse wack, then you gone |
| Fuck fame, I studied the fame closely |
| They build you up, then you get rocked like Shane Mosley |
| It’s pain homie… and your blood in my pen |
| It’s Army of the Pharaohs and we flooded with gems, yeah! |
| The Torture motherfuckin' Papers! |
| Dead Sea Scrolls out here! |
| Y’all don’t want it! |
| It’s fuckin' raw rap! |