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