Lyrics Styles Ain't Raw - Celph Titled, Buck Wild

Styles Ain't Raw

I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
It’s like I conjured demons, got bitches at my concert screamin'
Like a naval recruiter they truly want the sea men
Rip MCs at the seams leave 'em stomped as cement
I bring these motherfuckers hell if they don’t repent
Give 'em aneurysms when I start usin' big words
So I speak to 'em real simple like Big Bird
This has been brought to you by the letter «A»
Better pray you get away when I let Berettas spray
Get erased, get replaced real quick in this rap biz
Like the wrong answers on a second grade math quiz
Sick of simplifyin' for you simple minded Simple Simons
This is simple science when I spit it’s signifyin'
That my spit is fryin', I could spit shine the sun’s surface
With verses hot as fire, breathin' dragon’s burpses
I hate to burst your bubble but you faggots been bottle fed
Noddin' your noggin to what I’m sayin' like bobble heads
I’ll boggle your mind and crack a bottle of wine
Over your dome 'til your skull’s at the bottom of your spine
So dope you gotta rewind a lot of the rhymes
If Jesus Christ read my notebook then God will go blind
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
When I speak it’s a problem, I’m a beast and a goblin
Fuckin' a MILF that closely resembles Marie Osmond
And I’ve been… layin' in the cut
Mind controllin' elephants, stab your face with a tusk
Orchestrator o' death, I am a black reverend
Monitor your stats, it’s all you need is Monistat 7
Singin' Eye Of The Tiger but you in eyeliner
Mile high club, flight attendent goin' down on a guy sky diver
Ed 209 malfunction 500 rounds
I’m dumpin' a Gatling gun to your dome
We act like dynamite inside a pumpkin (sadistic appendages)
My whole body’s evil, havin' fun with two guns hittin' (Like some double desert
eagles)
We cop cars that look like cop cars
And got heli-copters to zero in on hella cop cars
And send a missile at your official tissue
'Cause your track sound gayer than the Mr. Wendell instrumental
Detrimental to your squad, I’ll distance members
And dismember body parts and gift rap 'em for this December
Death is the plan, you will meet Ed McMahon
When I clear you out, 'cause bombs that I publish be clearing house
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
Look!
Up in the sky.
It’s a bird!
It’s a plane!
It’s…
(The Puerto Rican Superhero!)
Yo, I’m angry like my momma just beat me with a switch
Madder than Nick Cannon when Eminem be dissin' his bitch
Big Chino is known to be a wild kid
Y’all refuse to get tested, you know, that Pacquiao shit
Where ever there’s drama I’mma fly and find the fucker
Beat him in the face till he’s ugly like Usher’s baby’s mama
I pray for ya death and I pray that I’m the cause of it Idiot, killin' a blind man with his own walkin' stick
My quickest simplest rhythms out-riddle all arithmetic’s
I memorize ridiculous, I can hypnotize a hypnotist
Spittin' less than 33 ounces, still considered a liter
My skills are far fetched like a Labrador Retriever
I mean I, keep o' lot of balls, only rivaled by the Gods o' Mars
Watchin' Mya’s ass shake on Dance With The Stars
My foes plot against me My verbal molest and deserve to be put in chairs of electric like Roman Polansky
I put that I target artists on my resume and place 'em in puddles of blood you
can see 80 miles away
Your survival is decided by which side of the bed I wake up on Worship the works of the wordsmith like it was a cross
My effect on women is hard to explain
I can piss on they head and convince them that it’s rain
I’m vain, my six pack makin' bitches love me more
Get out of line and get punched like you Snookie on The Jersey Shore
My raw thoughts are awful
I’m so twisted I could eat an iron nail and… shit out a corkscrew
My writtens are displayed inside of Egyptian pantheons
Chino’s bananas, I spit potassium and calcium and umm
You ain’t feelin' my spillings?
Only a minor lost cause
I am bad to the bone like a rotting corpse
My word a monologue
Keep rappers scared to go up in the booth
Like it’s Magic Johnson’s wife’s vagina raw
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
I’m ill versatile, with the skill no more
Wack MC’s wanna flex but their styles they bore
Yeah.
The coalition of the spoken word crack cookers
Celph Titled.
Apathy.
Chino XL.
Shuttin' shit the frrruck down
Buckwild.
D.I.T.C.
Forever and ever motherfucker
Or would you rather me throw you in the fuckin' river?
Or would you rather your house blows up next time?
«An attorney in Orange County made an explosive discovery last night at his
office.
He found a grenade hanging on his door!
He told police he was heading
into work late to wrap up some unfinished work when he spotted the hand grenade
and stopped dead in his tracks.
The bomb squad removed that device,
they haven’t said yet if it was actually a live grenade.»
«I'mma blow this motherfucker up if I don’t get my motherfuckin' change!»
«Well that hit the spot!»