Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Verbal Clap, artist - De La Soul. Date of issue: 04.10.2004
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Verbal Clap |
| You out there? |
| Louder! |
| Well clap your hands to what he’s doing |
| On tempo Jack |
| NYC gave you the ball, so how you gonna hate us? |
| We creators of them East coast stars |
| If you ask me I’ll tell you there’s no comp |
| But I’m still humble, even though I will crumble halls |
| Some call 'em songs, I call 'em words from me that take long to cook |
| So some feel free in sayin that we don’t hunger for beats |
| Not that we not hungry, just picky in what we eat |
| Keep food off the mind and keep weight off the body |
| All you gotta do is keep my name out your mouth |
| And stop frownin like you hostile |
| You know that it’s a booger rubbin up against your nostril |
| Nigga how you figure you can play this rap game without the backbone? |
| It’s Maseo, Dave, Wonder Why, givin what you lack holmes |
| Aiyyo prepare yo’self for the Neutron, bitch! |
| This is eighty-six, let that neo-rap go We present these flares to put fire to your ears |
| to lay smoke like rusty exhaust pipes |
| We run mics, let Sean run the marathon |
| Yo raise that money son, we raisin these kids |
| Get claps when curtains close, stage left |
| Up your stamina baby, bring some breath |
| SAT book smart, part ese |
| Loc’in like Tone, street niggaz get grown |
| Acquire more couth before you get poofed |
| Or get some shells sent over to your mic booth |
| Excuse, my delivery, but when peace don’t work |
| see this piece gon’work, cock aim and SHOOT! |
| It’s my constitutional right to bear arms |
| Arms and bare hands on mics, make fans unite |
| Woodstock and white folks involved |
| Black man get on yo’job! |
| Well clap your hands to what he’s doing |
| On tempo Jack |
| Let’s go beat for beat, and rhymes for rhymes |
| (put, all, the things aside) |
| Just bring your beats, and bring your rhymes |
| (put, all, the things aside) |
| The heavyweight L.I. |
| brother with no date, of expiration |
| On this fate on the mic, them birthday keep comin |
| I’m hated on by niggaz I love most |
| So what threat could you possibly pose when I’m on your coast? |
| So raise your guns or your glasses |
| Either way there’ll be a toast in the air |
| Markin the return of bare minimums you need to learn |
| Get your verbs right when you down to clap |
| See that gun powder calibre rap’ll tip hats like gentlemen do Smash tenements and skyscrapers |
| Bow-tie papers stacked high |
| Pay the resident tax or get your street sweeped |
| Front row, backstage or the cheap seats |
| I +Dodge+ richochets like +Ram+ trucks, you slow poke to pull it And I sup-pose you wanna top the Billboard chart |
| Man I toast these rhymes and then pop like Pop-Tarts |
| Well clap your hands to what he’s doing |