Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Beat The Clock, artist - Ghostface Killah.
Date of issue: 19.04.2004
Song language: English
Beat The Clock |
Aiyo, Ghost, what’s up nigga? |
This «Supreme» talkin' to you and shit |
You caught me all the way in Staten Island to see you |
Beat the two minute and thirty seven second clock |
Suprise: time started already, muthafucka |
Say that shit, nigga |
I’mma say it, don’t get mad, y’all, I throw my darts sideways |
Shoot 'em up, bang, bang, through me baby |
Lovely lady, fuck the spades, drive the kid crazy |
Before I go to bed, now I lay me |
People be talkin', I feed dolphins |
My defense’ll fly the coop off your mean office |
My skills is a fortune, robbin' leech out a suite auction |
Teachin foreign fifth graders, fuck what they say |
Cuz we against the abortions, and we |
Lay low-oh-oh, silent those clowin' foes |
Got them clothes for his new funeral |
We them Fat Albert, spot runnin' '86 crack viles and pictures |
Lookin' all suspicous, I’m out. |
Aiyo, hold up! |
What the fuck you stop for? |
(I got somethin' in my--) Nah, you can’t be stoppin', g |
What the fuck you ain’t got -- aiyo, you buggin' and shit |
Son, you gotta hurry the fuck up |
Time is runnin' nigga, come! |
What the fuck? |
I work magic out of liquor store |
Give me a dollar and I turn that bitch into five |
And all I need is one more, to get things started |
Get retarded, a one-two -- I’mma fix these artists |
Take 'em one by one, tie 'em up, line 'em up |
Treat 'em like a cigar, fire them niggas up |
They be up in the club, six/three tree’d up |
With them young 'keds with their gear all beat up |
This is how I’mma kill 'em with four lines left |
Hold your breath, say my name five times it’s take’s practice, yo |
Decap' him with sayin' my name, it’s like matches, yo |
It’s time to fuck up on account in a house, or blow |
Na-na-na-na-na, nah, nah, fuck that four-line shit |
You cheatin' and shit, I ain’t come here for all that |
(I'm tired, though lord, what the fuck) |
What you mean you tired and shit, g? |
You suppose to be that nigga, nigga then show me |
If you that nigga! |
Then show me, nigga! |
I hold a mic like I’m Gale Sayers |
Hoppin' over chairs like O.J., my rushin' yards |
Them pen, how the meter spray |
Happy wife-beater day, don’t touch my, cheeba hay |
Get off my D-I, then go C the K’s (case) |
'Scuse me Mr. D.J., please play «Fish» |
Or that Cherchez LaMe, ten four, may day-may day |
Callin' all cars, callin' all cars |
We have an APB on Starks and Trife the God |
We left the jewelry store, feelin' like we left the morgue |
We was frozen, and I brought an iced out Trojan |
That’s for pussies whose golden, who got Toney wide open |
I put my ring up to my man’s waves and seen an ocean |
Move like a wolf, kid, in sheep’s clothing |
Snatch the money bag off the milk truck and kept boating |
I be potent like ibuprofen, I be coastin' |
With two shotties on me, in your grimiest lobby smokin' |
This muthafucka made the clock! |
Mutha-- where the fuck? |
Yo, you be cheatin', mutha-, you be cheatin' |
That’s that Staten Island, bullshit |
Theodore… you know you might be a Ghost |
But you ain’t Houdini, muthafucka! |