Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Apex, artist - Chris Webby. Date of issue: 30.10.2018
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Apex |
| We the food chain’s apex — and muh’fucker we ain’t ate yet |
| Any food sittin' on your plate’s what we’ll take next |
| Keep it dirty on the mic, but we stay fresh |
| Set fire to your tape decks |
| (Nems!) Let the burner flame on your set |
| You run off on the plug, we just hang the connect |
| Put this in your tape deck, it’ll break the cassette |
| Soon as I finish writin' my verse, I bang on my chest |
| 'Cause I’m an apex predator, spray TECs, wet you up |
| You a bridesmaid at a same-sex wedding, bruh |
| Your best work is shit we do on the regular |
| Homie you not a killa, at best you an embezzler |
| Sneak thief, whack bars and weak beats |
| Hatin' on us in the game from the cheap seats |
| I will pull up on your girl like, beep, beep (beep beep) |
| Bitch get in the motherfuckin' car and eat meat |
| I know your mother, she ain’t raised no shooter |
| And that chain is garbage you should hate your jeweler |
| Give my little man a ounce of haze and buddah |
| Have him pull up on a Razer scooter, blaze and shoot ya |
| I grind hard every day 'cause we ain’t gettin' younger |
| Top of the food chain with a tremendous hunger |
| While Webby was in the booth spittin' bars |
| I went into his phone and stole Halle Berry’s number, what up |
| «We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected.» |
| What the fuck! |
| Your father shoulda pulled out and blew it all over your mom’s rear |
| You’re trash that pop beers on the back of a John Deere (Apathy!) |
| Better cop No-Doz, 'cause sleepin' on this song here |
| You’ll wake up with long beards, and think it’s the wrong year |
| Aw yeah, beat you to death, diss you at the seance |
| Then cut it short, like the hairdo on your gay aunts |
| Melted cassettes, scratched up wax and scribbled raps |
| On scraps, while hoes Snapchattin' they snatch |
| So distractin', extractin' souls while I’m relaxin' |
| The pyramid builder, windmillin' into a backspin |
| Adios suckers, I’m peelin' out in the Audi |
| Feelin' out how the crowd be — real fuckin' rowdy |
| Fight music, type of evil demons want to fight to it |
| Kill the mic and resurrect it, then I’ll put a spike through it |
| 'Cause can’t nobody try it or rock it |
| I’ll tie it to a rocket, and fire it at a fiery comet |
| You’re finally seein' my psychotic side when I’m on it |
| Invite me to flaunt it, you saw it and you violently vomit |
| I’m the worst-case scenario like AIDS in your flu shots |
| You rappers scared to flow should take a bath with ya boombox |
| «Ravishing» Rick Rude, in a savage and sick mood |
| Turn rappers to fish food, get masses of chicks nude |
| The apex predator, Ap circles the sharks |
| Soon as the verse starts, the vets give purple hearts |
| Yo, I possibly rap’s illest, I knew these wack spitters were catfittish |
| And I’m flabbergasted that you attached with it (C.T.!) |
| If I subtract fingers, can you «add"-mit it, I’m that wicked |
| You’ll get it later like last minute, shock critics, infinite |
| Swim underwater with a Trump supporter |
| And don’t come up 'til I’m sure I can really cure lung disorder |
| With a bunch of quarters, I’m sure I could fund your public order |
| But I’m keepin' everything to myself when amongst a hoarder |
| That kinda sorta, Webby call when he need me to merc a verse |
| Then I slur my words like I’m Dirt Mcgirt when convertin' herbs |
| And insertin' thirds at the curb, in a virgin you don’t deserve |
| When the curtain says, «do not disturb» and you still observe, it’s a burden |
| We the food chain apex, in a tape deck |
| Ain’t no way you can escape death |
| I wear my Air Forces when it’s pourin' the rain check |
| The food chain’s apex, I feel like a plane wreck in the main deck |
| (Mickey!) |
| This dude limitless, true penmanship |
| Born cam, get too out the frame, did you picture this? |
| (Factz!) |
| I move militant, too intricate, who’s into this |
| I’m only the good elements off the food pyramid |
| You listeners need to hire a nutritionist |
| King with these cool images, rule villages |
| Y’all food primitives, did my research on you shitty buffoon lyricists |
| So technically, y’all could say that I do due diligence |
| This is school syllabus, learn what I earned, I urge you to move different |
| Or squirm and get burned from the words, I spew cinemas |
| Remove privileges, Tom Hardy I’m too venomous (yeah) |
| Without CGI, this genie fly |
| Make a wish, colorful alias, graffiti mind |
| We be ridin', see me try to just keep in line |
| Make a move, without movin', I get that Ouija vibe |
| (Ren Thomas!) |
| I’ve been makin' bodies disappear like Bin Laden’s (uh huh) |
| Need people to send dollars every time my pen vomits |
| Fact is I need ten commas next to the name Ren Thomas |
| Tell the truth, with a gun to my head I’m dead honest |
| Tired of them comments, sayin' I look like so-and-so (Oh, really?) |
| But these rap cats will never reach me, like my phone is broke |
| Assholes sniffin' Paxil capsules in the bathroom (sniff, ah!) |
| While y’all suck at whatever rapper you get attached to (faggot!) |
| I’m raisin' bars like Roseanne’s old man (uh huh) |
| I’m in the trenches everyday, going Rambo HAM (braaat!) |
| I peep how they plagiarize, think I’m slippin' you played your eyes |
| Beef with my team and doctors will stabilize (yeah) |
| I ain’t cocky, how great am I? |
| Since I was 8 or 9 (uh huh) |
| I first ever created rhymes, took the game and made it mine (It's mine!) |
| Had a Mother’s Against Drunk Driving meeting in the road (Hello!) |
| Afterwards we got drunk in the parking lot and drove |
| My Turn! |
| Got Dr. Jekyll’s personality, with nothin' to hide |
| I’m In-N-Out… of my mind, Double-Double with fries |
| So cover your eyes, you gon' need a spot you could hide |
| Or hop in a ride, leave town, and cop a disguise |
| The Lord of the Flies, face war paint with the pig’s blood |
| Always on the grind since the times that I flipped bud |
| Runnin' up a tab but I’m still tippin' like Slim Thug |
| Underground money shit, I’m hustlin' with Dig Dug |
| Rap hot, spellin' out my syllables in caps lock |
| Sharper than a Slap Chop blade when the track drop |
| If you disagree, suck a fat cock |
| Catch me outside, like a motherfucking airport bag drop |
| Twenty in a matchbox, we gonna start a fire now |
| Still just warming up while my competition is dying down |
| Sway labeled me a hyena but wear a lion’s crown |
| You better get to lyin' down |
| Welcome to our fuckin' side of town |
| Yeah we them tri-state carnivores |
| Indominus dinosaur, the kind that rhymers watchin' for |
| Disassemble every part of your body is on the floor |
| Smashin' Aphrodite up on the throne of the God of War |
| Tuco Salamanca, I’m breakin' bad for the genre |
| From the north, with a Sansa that is stark, naked and proper |
| I’m bonkers and button-pushin' in Contra Konami Code with a choppa |
| The only honky they bumpin' out in Wakanda |
| Rollin' with some wolves and some lions, tigers, and bears |
| With some eagles, hawks, and a falcon that’s flyin' high in the air |
| Got a tank that be full of sharks, and a silverback that’ll tear you in half |
| So just be prepared, yeah they callin' us |
| The food chain’s apex — and muh’fucker we ain’t ate yet |
| Any food sittin' on your plate’s what we’ll take next |
| Keep it dirty on the mic, but we stay fresh |
| Set fire to your tape decks |
| We the food chain’s apex — and muh’fucker we ain’t ate yet |
| Any food sitting on your plate’s what we’ll take next |
| Keep it dirty on the mic, but we stay fresh |
| Set fire to your tape decks |