Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Fantastic 4 , by - DJ Clue. Release date: 31.12.1997
Song language: English
Fantastic 4 |
| You never hear that we buckle; |
| beef? |
| We chuckle |
| Scuffle over a game of pinochle |
| Anything up on my money, man, I gotta see double |
| Unless you want trouble |
| Oh, you realer now? |
| I’m the kind to cut a peace of soap, put it on the imbecile |
| Crack the Hen Rock style, give me the foul |
| Girls grope then I smile |
| That’s when they fall cause they met my balls |
| Right after I played ball |
| No wash-up, no nothin'. |
| Hear what I say y’all? |
| O.K. |
| y’all. |
| Ask AJ y’all |
| I’ll turn the baddest bitch gay y’all |
| Like Stacy, damn, she was eatin' Tracy’s ass |
| At this other lady’s pad |
| To get it on I had to call up Desert Storm |
| My cut-throats scar y’all, while you hope the Don fall |
| But I’ll come inside The Tunnel, nigga, wit Pope John Paul |
| Yo, them niggas on the wall frontin', they ain’t no harm y’all |
| My crew’ll break each shoulder |
| I’m that nigga they talk about on Street Soldiers |
| Cause my street soldiers are heat holders and weed rollers |
| We keep 2 bones and 2 phones in each Rover |
| We all relaxed and any beef we over-reactin |
| Peace to Lorey Actins, but I get buck wild like Corey Jackson |
| Playin' is called off, cause y’all about to get hauled off |
| Y’all all soft from smokin Nicholi (/nicks), nigga, like Volkof |
| Know what I mean yo? |
| Notice the cream grow |
| I fiend though, I’ll come fuck up your whole town like El Nino |
| I’m the hottest nigga you’ve seen though |
| Jumpin outta Lex Coupe |
| With Jimmy Jones right next to me in the Benz Truck too |
| Fuck all y’all non-believers, I roll wit God, the squad and T. S |
| Out wit the BS; |
| we platinum, they even doubted Jesus |
| Niggas is 85%, I’m 400 solid |
| Brainbolic wit knowledge, cock-diesel scholars |
| Holdin it down, walkin around with gold by the pound |
| Frozen and drownin with diamond boulders all in the crown |
| Talk of the town, soakin you down with the toast 'til you drown |
| Ghost you and pound your corpse with a force that’ll open the ground |
| Save the jokes for the clowns, I’m on a serious tip |
| You keep playin and I get furious quick |
| And now I take you for a walk through the ghetto |
| Either spark your metal or get outlined in chalk by the devil |
| I rep the borough that mothered this rap shit |
| I used to clap shit, now I just lay back and mack on some mack shit |
| I used to have to pack a mack in the back of the Ac |
| Now I relax and stack platinum plaques in my shack |
| It’s like that but don’t think I won’t counter act |
| My niggas is strapped and quick to lay a bitch on his back |
| I’m swift with the mack, quicker than Kung Fu |
| With the reflexes of a cat and the speed of a mongoose |
| Talk about huh? |
| That’s what we talk about thug shit |
| Now it’s a symphony, without me on it, it ain’t a symphony |
| My crew shit on cats without Tiffany |
| N-O-R-E, I just lace the heat |
| I don’t complain about the track, give me any beat |
| I get hed in the wip on any street |
| I fuck wit Clue, other cats is snakes |
| I’ve been fuckin' with Clue since he made 60 minute tapes |
| We copped mad bottles and crushed many grapes |
| We from the hood and they from the hood |
| The difference is we get plaques, they go double wood |
| Took the game right over at the time they could |
| Them niggas silly though, knowin' Nore lay pretty low |
| But them niggas is mos like the Maxwell video |
| I got 2 albums and 2 cars |
| Now bitches on my dick cause of Chico DeBarge |
| Thugged Out’s 1st lady (let's go half on a lady) |
| Ya motherfuckers ain’t live, don’t control the streets |
| I sold 163 thou on my 1st week |
| That means I got more fans than you |
| Bigger plans than you |
| We buy real coke, your grams is blue |
| Ai yo, the President is like me, he smoke weed too |
| Don’t really like to fuck, he just get hed too |
| Stick a broom in your butt, tell you, «go head boo» |
| Thugged Out motherfuckers like the rest of the crew |
| Canibus, Cam’Ron and Punisher too |
| And the beats are usually done by Duro and Clue |
| Who in the hell wanna battle, the ill mathematical? |
| My motherfuckin' brain is IBM compatible |
| Techniques are foreign, far from being borin |
| My style is hard like cancer without McCorman |
| I run threw your crew like the flu when I bomb it |
| My styles like AIDS cause don’t nobody want it |
| Niggas frontin' like they hard |
| But I’m a Street Fighter like Jean Claude |
| And I’ll split your shit, god |
| Right down the middle |
| Play you like a riddle |
| I got a fetish for titties, I nibble on the nipple |
| Then trespass on your property like Monopoly |
| Subdue your crew and beat that ass properly |
| Welcome to the Desert Storm annual extravaganza |
| Clue rolls deeper than the cart-rides on Bonanza |
| I feed off weed, natural energy sources |
| Lyrics with more power than the horses they put in Porsches |
| Can’t be tested or F’ed wit, I’m too reckless |
| I chop off heads just to take the necklace |
| The type of Canibus (/cannabis) that’s side-effectless |
| The type of shit that get the Question-mark Man arrested |
| Take evasive action |
| Flip like reciprocal fractions |
| Turn the heat up on MCs to watch their meat blacken |
| You try get fly, you get electrified and fried |
| Fuck around and get your mouth slapped dry |
| You could battle me and possibly survive |
| But you could never see me and walk away without a black eye |
| Word up hop, CLUEminat call the cops |
| And if the cops ain’t tryin' to see me, then the cops call SWAT |
| Scar your whole squad with bullet scars |
| No holds barred |
| I’ll even hassle the National Guard |
| Ready or not like the Fugees |
| Crews be steppin' to me |
| But I wipe em' all out like booty |
| I’m so unruly, the police don’t say nothin' to me |
| It don’t matter whether they on or off duty |
| I murder you brutally when I spit at you |
| My actions are unforgivable |
| Look at what CLUEminati did to you |
| The maximum lyrical, nigga you minimal |
| There’s a big hole in the desert, I told the men in blue to dig for you |
| Motherfucker… CLUEminati ninety-eight |
| DJ Clue… The Professional |