Lyrics Ingredients to Time Travel - Artifacts

Ingredients to Time Travel

«My subliminals, mixed with criminal chemicals
Got more mily syllables than alphabet cereal…»
I gots ta get this bag of bam ba zi, fuck this!
«You know who the fuck I am so get off that old bullshucks!»
«He ain’t shit, you ain’t shit, your momma ain’t shit, daddy ain’t shit»
If I had it my way, every wack MC would die Friday
Makin Saturday a better day
Sunday wouldn’t start your week off til Monday
One day tunes I wrote yesterday will be tomorrow’s scriptures for today
At high noon, Boom Skwad Gods with knowledge
Holler at apostles, who squalor in despair, despisin those who follow
Swallowin pride like St. Ide’s while you stare… take a drink
Don’t think in a eyeblink I won’t start my hijinks
And hijack a flight (Yeah right, when?)
Tomorrow night, cause off the record with the treble and the bass
I chase my lyrics through the rap race
Last place is simply not an option in my case
Waste not want not because I front not
The Notty keeps his lyrical shotty cocked
And locked up at your temple, over instrumentals
(«It's all in your mind») you No. 2 like the pencil
The Boom Skwadron, Godson, who got the Bop Gun
The top gun, from the jump like Datsun
I got one, candy-coated rote rhymes skits I shit on when I get on
Then flip the scripts like I had Zips on
It’s on like electrical, my symmetrical
Alphabetic keeps my competition ridin on my testicles
(«he ain’t shit, you ain’t shit, ain’t nobody shit»)
You to the rescue, let me test you
Who the best crew, most definite
Has to be the Skwad cause I’m the President
All you misrepresenters with your twelve inches need pinches
Wake the fuck up and check out what this is
(«he ain’t shit, you ain’t shit, your momma ain’t shit, ain’t nobody shit»)
I can’t see nuttin but victories
MC’s think they can get to me, then bring it
Cause once I pass the blunt to my Lieutenant then we in it
For the infinite, no play play
The notty headed Newark nigga from NJ and the Sensai
Represent fully, playin bullies out for yappin
Thinkin you’ll be rappin, get tapped and say you scrappin
While I been waitin hatin fake MC’s that make they bacon
With passion, rippin up they stickers for reaction
Practicin on rap has-beens, I’m down with the Biz like Backspin
Dissin Mikes like the Jacksons
Thick like the lips on that Fugee chick
Hard like the dicks in booty flicks
Dissin niggas like a snooty bitch (trick)
I only pop a coochie if it smells Gucci
Get the lucci hit it for months and then smoke blunts with the hoochies
(«What's the flavor Dunn" — Tame)
You know the flavor like blue cheese
On how I make crews bleed and school MC’s who try to do me
(«He ain’t shit, you ain’t… ahh motherfucker»)
«Do me baby, do me baby»
(«he ain’t shit, you ain’t shit… «)
«Bom ba zi, it ain’t over motherfuckers»
(«He ain’t shit, you ain’t shit»)
75% water, H2O, PE, alcohol, oil
Dependin on temperature, what’s the hot shit?
Rhino, Tame, Boom Skwad, Hidden Descent
INI, Reflections, check the Twins
Aight God, recognize what’s fake
Time to turn platinum to purple chrome
Green purple yellow red white chrome