| Yeah, yo, yo new start baby, what
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| Genix, all day every day, atomic, hard head baby
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| (Verse 1: Tino Vega)
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| Yo, yo, ay, yo in this two triple 0 spitting fire flow
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| Through your team photos and hit me up
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| Don’t give them Tampa hoes a dime, they be shiesty
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| Awful pricey, acting like they too hot for polar icees
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| They want their diamond watches now, smell the power
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| Watch me peel out, on a nigga dollar mountain biking
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| You heard what jigga said right, get to bouncing
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| Catch a cab or take a city bus ride or something
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| No blunt puffing for you, what happened to you
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| You used to be battle-able, this tragedy sounded very true
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| See that chick in the berry blue skirt, she called me a jerk
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| For working the wars too long, I had her on her knees and palms
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| Screaming my song for treating me wrong
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| The groupie soon to be singing along
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| It takes not long at all just to feel what I’m on
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| And Celph putting me on
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| (And that’s the type of shit we on)
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| (Verse 2: RK)
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| Ay, you it’s RK, running to kill
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| Not your everyday run of the mill emcee
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| That’s running the field with guns full of steel
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| Navigating the globe with a compass and shield
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| I don’t fumble for real, run though block stumbling steel
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| While rupturing shield and crumpling heels
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| Living large, dog, but I’m still hungry for mills
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| I was summoned for skill but let niggas know, lord is coming for real
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| Covered in teal, with hundreds of pills, cause we popping at will
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| We mad enough to pop shots at your bill
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| And in the meantime, we shopping for deals
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| With lots of appeal, I got to rhyme like a klepto has to steal
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| I spit more heat than a Glock in your grill
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| Noting I got is concealed, easily seen like you watching a film
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| Everything I spit they dropping it real
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| My words are like motion pictures grubbing for mills
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| RK the hip hop equivalent of Steven Speil
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| (Verse 3: Murdock)
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| Ay, yo we make it happen, never slacking up on the macking
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| I’m in the money trap in a platinum plaque, jacking
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| Don’t get caught slipping, mic ripping and cris sipping
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| 32 Glocks spitting infinite rounds when I start flipping
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| I ain’t tripping, leave your faggoty poverty stricken
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| My clique will stay shitting and passing out verbal ass whippings
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| Whether air max, air Jordan’s or Bo Jackson, never relax
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| And catch a reaction asking for action
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| It’s Murdock, I know that you hate that I’m rapping
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| Cocky and jaw clapping cheesing and cheek smacking
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| You in the club acting, talking about y’all clapping
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| Ran up on the real, got dropped and ain’t know what happened
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| (Verse 4: Primetyme)
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| I’m impossible to burn like TV dinners, impossible to document
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| You might as well do a project on Blair Witches
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| Impossible to cross like barbed wired fences
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| Impossible to peel off like dentures, once I’m hard in your grill like dentists
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| While you struggle that, I’m juggling bowling pins and play tennis
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| Some say that I’m cocky and arrogant
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| Some say my genius is like the shit hidden in Roswell with other evidence
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| You all bitch like feminists injected with extra estrogen
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| I don’t play no more, that went out with little league baseball
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| A high intelligence, you ain’t ready for what I got in store
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| Further more, you don’t compare to me, not even barely
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| I have you hiding in the attic with Anne Frank and her family
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| (Verse 5: Dutchmassive)
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| Listen when I speak, your whole crew’s delivery is weak
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| Fuck peace, I want beef, let’s take it to the streets
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| I eat your whole squad and spit out odd dismembered globs of kids
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| Who acting hard and got they body frame scarred
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| You jumping out of cars, we jumping out of planes, survive the impact
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| And gat you on a subway train (train, train) the Dutchmassive motto
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| Finish the whole bottle, get weeded and leave your chest hollow
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| Hollering at whores you hang around with, the loudest pipers in the club
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| (No doubt, kid) Mega hard junk planet bombard your stereo, scenario
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| F-L-A team get the dinero
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| (Verse 6: Celph Titled)
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| When Celph Titled and the track collide
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| You see worldwide action
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| International united chrome passion
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| Apocalyptic impact that make your bones quiver
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| My sixth sense is to rob from holy water rivers |
| And all them other niggas
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| That don’t speak the truth about the God supreme
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| A sala to bomb regime
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| Poly-ing with aolites up in the synagogue
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| Accurate to details, minus the etcetera
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| My father told me to bust first, remain calm
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| And recited words you’ll find in the same song
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| Unique wisdom, centennial prophesies
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| 8−1-3 monopoly, my Vietnam philosophy
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| (Verse 7: Vocab)
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| Sometimes I might bust first depending on my mood
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| Whether I’m bent or sober, or just laying in a coma
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| My girl standing next to me saying it’s over
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| But the only one who could judge me is Jehovah
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| He was there when I was O-D'd in a coma
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| My whole world was frozen, thought I was one of the chosen
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| My life was only worth what you holding
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| A blue beeper and a dime sack of reefer
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| 20 dollars in my wallet and not a damn cent of profit
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| Sick and tired of living this way, I’ve got to make it
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| They legislate rules so I could break it
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| 10, 20, fuck life, I’ve got to kill niggas to make it
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| And your boy going to eat, so don’t get it mistaken
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| I’m trying to count hundos until my wrist be shaking |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Tropic States , by - Celph Titled. Song from the album The Gatalog, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп