Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Low Key, artist - Company Flow.
Date of issue: 27.02.2001
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Low Key |
I’ve got two underpaid educators on the faders |
Mad about the salaries of baseball players |
A nation of thugs waving guns at the mayor |
The meek on they knees, cold prayin' for savior |
Enabled to outlast disease that plagues ya |
Scientists with remedies, save 'em for later |
In God we trust, written on the paper |
Which soon will burn, as humans learn |
To upgrade, advance |
But wade, too far in the waters of chance |
Stress reaches up to the heavens, its arms |
Take the form of nuclear bombs |
And when they weary, they drop and crush theory |
Laying to waste every thing you held dearly |
Let this near it, at this point you see clearly |
You nodded through peril, just scream if you hear me |
COME LIKE I HERE’SAY |
Ain’t nobody comin' this fed |
Could’ve went, got some sleep, but got keyed instead |
So the organs that I use to breed are now bred |
Cigarettes to the head, chillin' on the balcony |
With some fly shit on hand like I practice foul degree |
I’m out to be, one of the best, you know |
MURS plus a mic, fuck the summit of rest |
Now a gun and a vest? |
Might protect you from takin' one in the chest |
But it can’t protect you from this legendary crew that’s runnin' the west |
I make you want to invest in the shit that we made |
I give a damn what you made fuckin' with E-Trade |
Cuz when the beat’s laid, the hardcore becomes priceless |
The righteous Doctor T put the walk in concrete |
The stop on Wall Street, the knock on the beat |
You couldn’t run a close second with some clocks on your feet |
Not jocked in the street but respected at the bank |
Unsigned and hella broke, think it is when it ain’t, bitch |
Uh, baby, the other OTHER white meat… |
Whose radio reacts with the version of a perfect attack |
Hi my name is Jamie Maleny, you might recognize me |
From such magazines as white inches |
And such films as kick the perpetrator new jack in his talk box |
And bounce from the set like time bandits |
Dwell in the cracks of the asphalt to design famine |
If I combine the dirty works of the content in a bent drum pattern |
Where each snare you hear is a snapshot of a broken city children |
Building jails out of commotion and metal legos, c’mon man! |
And that’s a kick-drum for the homeless, a gunshot for the system |
Position on the totem is low |
And Fahrenheits (?) today to sweat bullets |
The cops will sodomize you like Jim Jay Bullet |
And lick Billy Blanks at ya ass on some bullshit (Get 'em up Billy!) |
Humanity makes the pellets that swim like the blade through gut jelly |
So what the fuck can you tell me? |
So what on God’s earth do you think you can sell me? |
[Mr. |
Len scratches «I got some good shit to tell you tonight |
Brothers and sisters, brothers and sisters"] |
Syncopated to the third degree, highest motion felt by man |
Dropping through the bars from the fingers in the back of the brain day |
Linger, maintain with the most devotion, scientific and vocal portion |
Full-position dynamite, couldn’t have rocked on a finer night |
Universe in a fire fight, me against the world tonight |
Woes, negative, positive balance and flows |
Holds, like in an upper color’s wallowing pride |
From the first time that I tried might have been the first time that I died |
Cuz I know now that I’m a mad scientist |
Eyeing formations from the top of skyscrapers that dwells within my craters |
Now it’s dark and I’m in the park with a marker and a telescope |
In hopes to find the universe I fit in |
Bidding on good riddance, forever after |
Chuckling, your human science gives me laughter |
Knees buckling, under the pressure of these energy masters |
Smothering you bastards, acts is so plastic |
Drop this shit from the head, ten-low, chemo |
Emcees hope we won’t |
Co-Flow, Living Leg' collaboration |
We keep the world spinnin' like innovation |
All shall awaken, nigga I don’t move or hover |
Maybe you’ve got something to prove |
But anything you’ve got, covered |
Couldn’t picture this within a limbus |
Infamous, stylus I’m epic |
BMS damn right you said it |
Damn right when it comes to the mic |
Audio flows and any motherfucker can get it |
MURS, Scarub and Eligh |
Mr. Len, Mr. Lif, El-P and I |
Please don’t attempt to adjust the vibe |
We like to fuck with what you reset |
What you just said, there’s no ways to protect |
Two disconnections formed this step to intervention |
Wherever we from, whatever we’ve done |
However we some emcees |
Wherever we from, whatever we’ve done |
However we some emcees we from |
My time is slim, it ripples like tight skin over rib cages |
Where I’m from, the powers that be got us livin' like dogs |
Chasing our tails three-hundred and sixty degrees |
Going nowhere, blinded by the glare of the green |
Not talking weed I’m talkin' dollars |
They’re taping your every move on this planet |
It’s a life-long race from start to finish |
A competition where many win and many more get deminished |
A selected few cross through, a checkered flag for the first of 'em |
Those who come in first place just had more thirst in 'em |
A little bit more burst in 'em, but keep out the catch |
We’re all living in this poll-position |
Some are just more focused to win and acquire the things that glisten |
While others get left in the dust, miles away |
Placed in the opposite position, pissing their lives away |
So my time is slim, my time is slim, my time is slim… |