Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Best@it, artist - Brother Ali. Album song Us, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 21.09.2009
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Rhymesayers Entertainment
Song language: English
Best@it |
Freeway got a voice like an electric guitar, I’m the bass to it |
Walk to the speaker hold your face to it |
Freezer |
I’m 'bout to rip it straight from the rip |
Body every beat the scriptures to me that we close to the end |
Listen, Kill 'em with the spit and put my boys in position |
So none of my niggas got to pitch on the street |
It’s Young Freezer the bar spitter the big beard |
From the city of brotherly hate where we bear eagles |
The desert kind and we pay them coppers no never mind |
Niggas still palm heaters |
My hood is bad they turn teen they grab ninas |
A couple aunts one mother no dad |
Streets was their father figure and they never had |
That’s why they run up in your spot with a couple Glocks |
Had hunger pains I couldn’t make it to eat |
Got introduced to Islam started making Salat |
We in two different cities |
Minnnesota and Philly |
But I’m on the same page as Brother Ali |
Yeah Joell Ortiz, get it |
I Ain’t make believe like some of these costume fuckers |
So YAOWA, I literally got you Brother |
Ain’t a hood too rough ain’t a block too gutter |
These rappers starting to look like them pork chops you smother |
Slide me a fork damn right I eat pork |
I’m sick I dine on the swine flu with every thought |
Every track I rhyme to develops a heavy cough |
Till it’s fully blown and it turns into a smelly corpse |
I’m eatin' I ain’t fat this just how my belly floss |
I’m on the road so much I’m build me a telly porch |
Bitches be hawkin', I be turnin' my celly off |
They crazy like the ass on Miss Tracee Ellis Ross |
Come home early I might be in that bed of yours |
Girls like me I’m sort of like a walking metaphor |
And this mic seems like it kinda just might be… a gift and a curse |
They give me ass and curse me out when I don’t make 'em wifey |
I’m on the set mic check like your favorite Nikes |
A Rhyme Sayer so it’s only right that they invite me |
On the track with 'em. |
I’m oozing that rap rhythm |
Could rhyme forever whatever. |
I’ll let Ali scrap with 'em |
Some of the greatest got respect for the way that I rock the set |
But you ain’t seen no Jacob shit dangling off my neck |
So of course, dudes around the way are all suspect |
Why them Rhymesayers boys ain’t break you off with a check |
Wait a minute it’s not that I ain’t get it |
It’s just that I’m considerate |
And shit about they way I spend it |
You ain’t never heard me say I’m pimpin' |
I referee the game I’m in and so I play it different |
I Need the deed to my home and the title to my car |
Make sure that my health and my life are all insured |
If I ain’t got all four I consider myself poor |
Diamonds to the floor is something I can not afford |
You see these cats and most of them are lying |
Selling CDs and packs, both of them are dying |
My man Free earned that shit it ain’t a costume |
And I ain’t 'bout to cop a fake joint to give props to 'em |
You ain’t seen nothing crazy on my arm (Ha Ha Hum) |
My kids got a stay at home mom |
Until my grand kids are straight I ain’t buying jewelry |
And truly can’t thank my fans enough for what they do for me |
Industry suits wasn’t digging my jams |
I tour like a madman build my brand |
Soundscan never meant nothing to the fans |
They ain’t in it for the trends they want to listen to the man |
I give 'em what I can and when I’m in the jam |
I get to spittin' so ridiculous they pissing in their pants |
They listen every chance that they can get it their hands |
Until they wear the CD out and go and get that shit again |
God damn it got me back on my rap shit |
Got that home run king batting average |
Achievements, no 'roids taken, no astrict, don’t need it |
No styles bitten, no ass kissed |
Believe it |
Record is flawless my respect is enormous |
My current peer group is a short list |
Only way I lose if I forfeit |
The only way you climb in these shoes is if I tire of the throne and climb off |
it |
Dont' hold your breath on it |
Only begun |
If you ain’t the Rhymesayers I don’t owe you a crumb |
Can’t no MC call me his son |
The lowest ever been uttered is kid brother but that’s only been one |
I paved my own road to the sun |
My aura glow has become |
A beacon of hope the closer I come |
I’m sorry there can only be one |
Champ around here I am not a peer |
I’m up here, you down there |
Look down and the ground’s near |
Au contraire I hear your heart pound fear loud and clear |
Feet of sasquatch |
MC’s are mad soft |
Make their weak ass glass jaw meet the asphalt |
Better hope Ali don’t blast off |
He’ll twist your hand off |
Take you in the back and saw the cast off |
Can’t slow him up the more he get the more he want |
They steady telling me hip hop is in some sort of rut |
That’s cause they watching the TV and they ignoring us |
It ain’t my fault they fail to see that we done tore it up |
I’m from a broken mold y’all are from that carbon cut |
That shit has all been done before |
I’m here to call your bluff |
I don’t compare myself to dead rappers |
I’m here to write the next chapter in braille and left handed |
Consider yourself reprimanded |
Fresh rap shit and y’all know we the best at it |