Lyrics Dirty - Diabolic, Tones, Maggie Burnz

Dirty

Um, have you ever felt, like, you’re, y’know… dirty?
The dirtiest
Get dirty!
Dirty bastard
What a dirty, filthy mind you’ve got
As God rested and the seventh day passed, I had props
I’m the reason they keep heaven’s gate latched and padlocked
I share the same genetic traits as a Sasquatch
And secret agents from the NSA hacking laptops
You can check my resume tracked through back blocks
Where Dope heads were kids let 'em play catch with crack rocks
I levitate to levels way past the last flock
My mental state kept in a plane crasher’s black box
Way back at 's spot, with his older brother
Met my homie Butta, sixteen years we know each other
Street shit, sip these beers and roll another
Each hit makes the spit scream fear, the odor from us
Yo motherfucker, 'Tones is Butta, my flow is gutter
The hoes will love us so much they poke holes in rubbers
Yo 'Bolic, (What up?) I see people like your album covers
(Why's that?) They front never shows true colors
Rocking clothes spitting dope on the stage
Rolling dutches by the hundreds, blowing smoke in your face
Bring the flavor on tracks, but that’s only a taste
'Cuz when you see me stomp a hole in the place
Grabbing bitches by the brains, getting brains with my blunt lit
Known to only fuck with sluts that suck dick in public
Repulsive, self-destructive, repugnant
Words are offensive, verses get censored, but fuck it
Yeah, fuck it out in Suffolk, I’m son of Jarell
Summoned from hell, puffing an L, under a spell
I do my thing, king of the jungle, hunting gazelles
On tour while chicks FaceTime, touching themselves
(Disgusting!) What else?
Not courteous, arrogant, obnoxious, impervious
Wordsmith, every verse spit muderous, ha, ha
You now fucking with the dirtiest
This that New York shit, that fucking raw shit
Yo I used to hop fences, running from cops
I hid dubs in my sock, they were 'bucking on shots
On the block cyphering, for the love of hip-hop
Naturally I, still got in dutches and pot
Up in the spot, puffing, bumping rum and Ciroc
Record spinning, reminiscing of the stuff you forgot
On some other shit, blunt is lit, chugging some scotch
'Til the day I die as part of a government plot
Nothing but props, constantly avoiding your daps
That golden sound hold it down, like the noise in the back
Mark my words, just like my voice in the wax
Run up on the radio and I’m destroying your tracks
Enjoying the fact I make a living spitting these rhymes
Outside the box, like the coach giving me signs
The epitome, I don’t need the industry shine
Real talk, other rappers be habitually lying
(Committing these crimes) Nah, they be copping a plea
(And that’s why these motherfuckers) Ain’t rocking with me
Provocatively, mock an MC, for talking 'bout his Glock and his 'V
Cheddar Bob, shot in the knee
This that New York shit, that fucking raw shit