Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Get U Awn, artist - Chords. Date of issue: 31.12.2009
Song language: English
Get U Awn |
| Yeah, one two |
| It’s Masta Ace, Punchline, Chords (yea) |
| Uhu, uhu, yeah |
| Check it |
| Vers 1: (Masta Ace) |
| My plan and intention, be the man of invention |
| To spit shit and make ya’ll stand at attention |
| If I can I’m lynchin' every cat in the game |
| Whether he’s lackin' the fame or got a platinum name |
| See I’m cool like a fridge when I’m under pressure |
| A lot of rappers on ice but none are fresher |
| I don’t see why wanna step inside the ring |
| That’s worse than Eddie Murphy when he try to sing |
| So you ain’t got no chance in a victory lap |
| I don’t feel that shit you tryin' to kick to me cat |
| So you keep on rappin' about them furs and minks |
| I heard your little single every version stinks |
| The remix, the accapella, the instrumental |
| It’s so sad that I’m ‘bout to get sentimental |
| I’mma shit in your toilette, leave your ass a floeter |
| Cause my song still bubble like a glass of soda |
| We want, it’s on, shit come on |
| It’s a sick song, spit bombs, get you awn |
| (Cuts courtesy of Dj Amato) |
| Vers 2: (Punchline) |
| I suggest when I’m live on the set, don’t test |
| Y’all cats be careful, I’m careless |
| I show no remorse when I spit on your squad |
| I’m such a cold ass nigga that my nipples are hard, check it |
| That spotlight y’all ain’t ‘posed to have it |
| I grab it and son y’all cats like foster parents |
| I come through, you vacate your own turf |
| I’m Punchline, same guy that rocks with Wordsworth |
| Give me a slut that fucks and a new Benz truck |
| Make it a 4-door I’m tired of being cooped up |
| My whole crew’s ruff in Timbs and Nike fitted |
| After this year I’ll retire my mic like the Wizards |
| Keep your distance, come close and you’re a goner |
| I spit hot shit and turn booths into saunas |
| I play the corner I’m a young a street performer |
| I warned ya, I smoke weed I’m bi-polar |
| We want, it’s on, shit come on |
| It’s a sick song, spit bombs, get you awn |
| (Cuts courtesy of Dj Amato) |
| Vers 3: (Chords) |
| Dawg, I don’t need a crew, we can mano-a-mano |
| Guaranteed I’ll leave you looking like Ronald McDonald |
| And there’s no use in kissing my ass |
| You couldn’t get a line in my if you was fishing for bass |
| Mystery man, popped up, split you in half |
| Taking the whole thing back like history class |
| True emceeing, shit man I’m European |
| But most people don’t believe I’m a human being |
| I snack on rappers like they’re apple jacks |
| Cause everything they know is a Snapple fact |
| Conveyor belt, I do it back to back |
| Kick em and pass em like a hackysack |
| Plus my lung size will bring out the midget in you |
| I smoke bongs the size of a didgeridoo |
| Passed most you assholes with a single or two |
| You’re not a rapper just because you’re wearing Timberland boots (hell naw) |
| Like I said, shit I bless the cabbage |
| Til people on the street think I’m Fester Addams |
| And my face shrivels up like California prunes |
| Women still faint when I storm the room |
| It must be the natural charm |
| I guess my mother had a gene and just passed it along |
| So after I’m gone you can drink the pain away |
| While I drive home thru a tinker tape parade, bitch! |
| We want, it’s on, shit come on |
| It’s a sick song, spit bombs, get you awn |
| (Cuts courtesy of Dj Amato) |