Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song K.I.M., artist - EPMD. Album song Back In Business, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 31.12.1996
Record label: DEF JAM, RAL
Song language: English
K.I.M. |
| Nah nah, check this out, yo |
| I grab my dick, spit, hit the blinkers, split |
| The Dutch Coronas, tokin irons without permits |
| Repetoire long-faced murderer’s the shit |
| Black Bruce Willis mix tape arsonist |
| Esquire, for hire, with total rapid fire |
| Supplier to any Tom Dick Jerry Maguire |
| You chose the right man to get the plan executed |
| I get the situation happening before you shoot it |
| Flow direct-or, surprise you like guess what? |
| The hotter I spit I’m trippin off smoke detectors |
| Who next up to get dressed up, I don’t pop |
| Corks I pop New York with a Doc teleport |
| The art then the craft, will split you in half |
| I’m a Hurricane you a Miller Genuine Draft |
| While you push a S-Class I’m riding on a giraffe |
| Uptown, naked, smoking a bag with hash, check it |
| Shut your windows and lock your doors |
| Whores scream louder than Barrymore when I pour |
| And when me and my crew walk we walk on all fours |
| Atomic Dogs, packed in a black Yukon |
| K.I.M |
| Keep It Movin' |
| John Blaze, I keep y’all niggas rockin for days |
| Boriquas, to eses, around the ways |
| My own Mix Tape DJ, I Flex |
| You don’t have a clue when I’m doin ya who is he I gets busy, word up |
| Poker player look in my eyes you think I’m bluffin |
| A five year span turned nuttin into somethin |
| And don’t get familiar, your whole entourage don’t be |
| Feelin ya, behind your back they straight killin ya |
| (Who am I?) The Ex-Headbanger bad motherfucker |
| High on Friday with Chris Tucker |
| I be a Headbanger to my very last breath |
| Even Jermaine Dupri think I’m So So Def |
| K.A., Shawn Mims, I come from a long line of Geechies |
| Who didn’t care, blow Camp Lo Luchinis |
| I transform like Spawn, takes no time |
| For me to get on, to the break of dawn, word |
| PMD, the Purple Heart admiral |
| Blow your spot and left shrapnel |
| Then escaped in the Benz capsule |
| Harder than a NFL tackle, back to bite the Big Apple |
| Southpaw, raw since I was a Sophomore |
| Before I met Jane in the corridor |
| The mentor, rapper slash entrepeneur |
| With more action than Roger Moore |
| Turn your cabbage into coleslaw, with the four four |
| Spray Windex on your glass jaw |
| Shatter it, fuckin with P, is hazardous |
| Iced out Lazarus started and manufactured this |
| My Squad’s wild like the Manimals on Geographic |
| Smash you bastards on some crab shit |
| EPMD’s the group the Squadron is the click |
| Transmit, lyrical grit, time to shift cause I’m |
| Keith Murray, the holder of the boulder |
| Lyrical analyst mental roller coaster flower |
| Money folder, track blower, MC overthrower |
| I flow witcha two at a time, like Noah |
| I doze off to the beat, on the edge of reality |
| And kick rhymes in my sleep, and battle Mortality |
| Finally, every dimension know Keith |
| Y’all egotistical simple-minded niggas is pitiful and weak |
| I’ll give you a G a week for life, if you can defeat me |
| I kick poetry at a high rate of mortality |
| Aesthetic, lyrical Kraftmatic, smokin |
| Barkin like a dog, breathin like an asthmatic |
| Lyrical sculpture create fly rap sculpture |
| Ninety-eight Headbanger boy, yeah I told ya |
| Total chaos, helter skelter, run for shelter |
| Here comes the lyrical brain melter |
| I be maxin and relaxin, attractin action |
| Flippin more big ol words than Jesse Jackson |
| My shit knock don’t it, drive you crazy if you loan it |
| Man I feel for my opponents |
| Chorus (to end) |