| The verbal assassin pull out a napkin
|
| Wipe the lens off of the Sniper before I blast it
|
| Target acquired, click, blaow, hip hop Halo, hit the DJ from the radio in the
|
| headphones
|
| Put an end to the same five tunes in the afternoon
|
| The Molotov monologue, smash a stereo to a fragment with that abstract shit
|
| Kicking ass in a Jason Mask, Casey Jones, put down the hockey stick
|
| And choke the life out a beat with a cordless microphone
|
| The terminology terrorist, explode you to your burial
|
| I’m on another plane with a stealth bomb disguised as a boombox for one of my
|
| carry on’s
|
| The monster just transferred from Transylvania, mastermind, telepathic rap shit
|
| Xavier, snapping a rappers ankle, hit you from Kurt Angles to mangle you
|
| without lifting a finger
|
| Telekinetic mic checking for my boom bap brethren and rock the set list
|
| Death to the radio they ain’t playing no jams, no more
|
| If you, feeling me then throw up your hands, wave em' from side to side
|
| Keep the real shit alive, explode on the count of three
|
| 3 — 2- 1, ah
|
| Death to the radio they ain’t playing no jams, no more
|
| If you, feeling me then throw up your hands, wave em' from side to side
|
| Keep the real shit alive, explode on the count of three
|
| 3 — 2- 1, ah
|
| Verse 2: E-Fav]
|
| Yo, cut my microphone volume way up past blasting
|
| I want them people in the rafters to capture what we imagine
|
| A potent infectious virus folding up your speaker boxes
|
| Hope she soaking up that knowledge while she giving it
|
| Old women ex finite, new dames on demand
|
| I walk the way I do to expand vocal elastic bands
|
| Wrapped every line land blowing minds
|
| That futuristic, realer complistic simplex
|
| Syllable iller pimp shit, whole flavors word play-a- worm hole a black matter
|
| molder
|
| I’m a creator, chopping through you fucking haters
|
| Got 'em choking off the vapors
|
| Slow down baby you fucking with some niggas who flow round crazy
|
| Let’s go
|
| Death to the radio they ain’t playing no jams, no more
|
| If you, feeling me then throw up your hands, wave em' from side to side
|
| Keep the real shit alive, explode on the count of three
|
| 3 — 2- 1, ah
|
| Death to the radio they ain’t playing no jams, no more
|
| If you, feeling me then throw up your hands, wave em' from side to side
|
| Keep the real shit alive, explode on the count of three
|
| 3 — 2- 1, ah
|
| Tell me if my flow is crazy, deranged maybe
|
| If I threw an old man into an old lady
|
| Why I hit they granddaughter while she was chilling with homies
|
| Marvin Gaye was playing I call that banging some oldies yo
|
| L.A.Z mother fucker
|
| I’m calling stations collect, murder my ears, songs they played 'em to death
|
| Produce a mili like I’m bang-a-la-desh that cash money
|
| Or power respect what’s your key to life
|
| I’m picking the locks at birdman spot in the garage I spotted a Dodge
|
| I jacked his Vette then circled the block
|
| And heard, yo, whoa, did he really just taser the cops?
|
| Hell yeah and your whole cul-de-sac just stood there and watched
|
| They were shocked, I plugged in the matrix got lit up by voltage and watts
|
| It fried my brains like I’m rolling up pot said, yo
|
| Got me questioning why even put that effort in
|
| I need Excedrin, headaches from tuning into F and M, I can’t eff with them
|
| Death to the radio they ain’t playing no jams, no more
|
| If you, feeling me then throw up your hands, wave em' from side to side
|
| Keep the real shit alive, explode on the count of three
|
| 3 — 2- 1, ah
|
| Fuck the cops, I don’t care
|
| Hng, Fuck the cops |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Insane , by - Clear Soul Forces. Song from the album Fab Five, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп