Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Sh. Fe. Mc's , by - De La Soul. Release date: 26.03.2001
Song language: English
Sh. Fe. Mc's |
| No need for, introductions, cause I know you know my name and |
| Knocking MC’s out the frame and, putting them suckers to shame and |
| I live for hip-hop, so I have no time for fun and games and |
| So just come and peep the unique styles that we’re displaying |
| The beat’s just ridiculous, the lyrics articulate |
| Feels good, as if a girl had just touched her clitoris |
| Sucker MC’s, I’m killing 'em, I’m so sick of seeing 'em |
| Silly (shit) when they rhyme, like that red rugby shirt worn by Gilligan |
| Plus the hat, they (shit) is wack |
| When you see me coming take ten steps back |
| I make usage of the pronouns, adjectives, verbs |
| My granny says «You always had a way with words» |
| And that’s because my word is bond, lyrics are laws |
| Sucker MC’s look at me like a friggin' eye sore |
| Here comes a brother hipping others on the style they lack |
| I’ve always rhymed abstract |
| I even know the brother named Abstract |
| I am the earner of the soul and mind |
| Forget the physical cause the physical will die with time |
| I’m shaped to vibrate indefinite proportions |
| Of the kids who need the fix (Just listen to the mix) |
| I got the knowledge constant non-stop for the rubbishing |
| Like (niggas) using Clinton loops as if they owned the publishing |
| Gums be bleeding from illegal feeding on my verb |
| I bring the Mardi Gras to your face |
| I outwit vipers in my rhyme cipher |
| I can easily lick them cause they’re victims of the subconscious race |
| Tossing periods in front of foes reps |
| It’s not the 187 when the 360 slept |
| You swallow the cake from the plate of elevate |
| Or you might get sparked by the crew who got the weight |
| So resuscitating rap like the hicks do with Presley |
| Is the kid who peeled the jeans in Orleans off of Leslie |
| Sh. |
| Fe. |
| MC number nine, if you let me rhyme nine times infinitely I will climb |
| I let my Walkman from Sony play cassettes from Rabboni |
| Which guarantees to put me on the narrow road |
| Ayo, that’s it from me, Plug 3, and Ali explode! |
| When I rhyme, the effect just ripples |
| You sound sick, I hope your cells get sickles |
| And formulate into real stiff (shit) |
| Then I bet that (niggas) cut the chit chit |
| Cause the Ab will, be sharper than a Ginsu |
| Cutter or your bum (ass) head for the gutter |
| This is not a game and we ain’t looking for the fame |
| That’s not the aim, we came to rip the jam out the frame |
| My inter-reaction with paper is amazing |
| So needless to say mad trails are left blazing |
| A whole lot of bull (shit) rhymes start to get play |
| But I’m here to say that real rhymes do pay |
| I’m the type of brother that writes until my knuckles get nary |
| And through the domepiece, the rhymes will carry |
| Then transported to my throat then the quotes hit the air |
| As I stand dipped with the wares |
| Rhymes get slot times, move back from the jack |
| It’s the verbal constructor, some MC’s is wack |
| I make a girl do the bogle, doo doo brown and all |
| Make (niggas) jump up, drink Dom, and have a ball |
| I animate the unlively with the verbal combat |
| The Abstract, never the wack |
| Motivator of the many like Moses |
| Moving through, bringing danger to the dummies that poses |
| That means you, the sub relator of the sub culture |
| Wack (nigga) vulture, I swoop down on crowns |
| Cause confusion all around |
| Mental burdens I bring to MC’s who sing, they sad songs |
| Money, your dough’s not long |
| Mines on the other hand is lengthy type |
| The Abstract gets real, real, real… |
| Real down to Earth I hit the Long Island Rail |
| You never see me tango with the horn and the tail |
| I got the kit for your mind I design it like Zender |
| Smoking mad hope from my neighbors, and da |
| 50/50 luck takes the «S» off my chest |
| Cause the «S» on my chest makes a mess |
| Settling for Superman, stupid man, put on your glasses |
| Now your asses be slow gassin' like molasses |
| Continue the menu, next on the platter |
| Hey where that (bitch) at? |
| (He's right here boy!) |
| I gotsta see what I got and who I’m getting it with |
| This ain’t no nickel dime game that I’m peddling with |
| Mikey Roads said «Stop riding, it be dividing |
| Taking me out how I be vibing» |
| (Niggas) actin' hard like gristle |
| But my pops got the pistol |
| Told me if I ever need it just *whistle* |
| Respects to Griff Dog for the razor |
| Much respects to Joe Buck for the favor |
| It’s about a million brothers trying to be MC’s in this world |
| I’m glad I got a baby girl |