| Emcee’s no time out, it's time to rhyme out
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| You’ve dug your own grave, now you must climb out
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| Dig out, crawl out, hide from the fallout
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| 'Cause when I get mad I go all out
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| ICE cooler than the coldest cube, dude
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| And when I’m micin', boy, I'm know to get rude
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| Criminal background, it's time to get down
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| I use a silencer, don't like the loud sound
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| Off my mic blast, you better run fast
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| The last punk that popped junk passed
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| Spit on his grave, laughed, jumped in my stretch
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| Signed his bitch an autograph
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| Syndicate boy, I don’t fool out
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| You’re full grown, school's out
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| You try to diss?.. I think you better cool out
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| 'Cause your butt is smoke, if we ever duel out
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| This jam is directed, to all of those who expected
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| For me to cold be rejected, but now I’m highly respected
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| And now their ears are infected
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| With dollar signs I’ve collected
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| Jealous punks, I said it!
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| Personal
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| Take a personal
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| Take it personal, punk, I'm talkin’to you
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| And if they agree with you, then your crew too
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| I never diss an emcee, I wish’em all good luck
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| But if you diss me to my face, duck
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| My style don’t ramble, you shouldn’t gamble
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| With your grill, I got a fist like an anvil
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| I write a record, lock it on the topic
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| EVIL and IZ dog the track, then we drop it Record stores rock it, stock it, fans buy it People that never heard of ICE-T try it Then you try to diss? |
| You got gall
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| I got gold on my neck and gold on my wall
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| Gold in my fingers, gold in my ear
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| When this jam’s spinnin', gold's what you hear
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| Toy, this ain’t Christimas, no time to play
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| I ain’t no child, punk, you'll get sprayed
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| Illin’on a mega-villan
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| You must want a pine box to go chill in Buried deep, creep, no one will weep
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| 'Cause the next night with your bitch I’ll sleep
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| Personal
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| Take it personal
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| I ain’t East Coast, West Coast, new style, or old style
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| You wanna know about me? |
| Check police files
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| Get out my face or you might have a bruised one
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| Brass knuckle prints? |
| Yes, I used some
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| I ain’t here to boast, I don’t do that
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| When I talk it’s straight dope, pure facts
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| I rock hard but still called a new jack
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| But talk shit, you're sure to get heard cracked
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| I don’t drink or smoke or do dumb drugs
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| But my posse’s still labeled street thugs
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| L.A.P.D's got all my boy’s mugs
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| Can’t use my phone for the damn bugs
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| I live in privacy, don't like suckers hawking me News reporters, some think they can talk for me Lies, misquotes, changin'all my words around
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| But if I catch’em on the street they’ll get beat down
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| They get money for hype-type publicity
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| They don’t think twice, about dissin’me
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| But that’s a mistake, with tha SYNDICATE you shoudn’t mess
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| I hope those punk reporters wear vests!
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| Personal
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| Take that personal
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| Now the words I speak to some may sound radical
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| But I’ll explain, it's simply mathematical
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| You diss, I diss, this is creates an equal
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| You reply to my diss, this is called a sequel
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| I reply to your diss, this is called a battle
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| Not intelligent, not very adult
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| So I don’t battle, I just put heads out
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| A straight line is always the direct route
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| I write lyrics clear, to leave no doubt
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| Don’t even have to say who I’m speakin’about
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| You know who you are, you just jealous
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| 'Cause you hear my records are million sellers
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| Try to say I’m wack, out on the streets
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| While your whole crew is jockin’my beats
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| See me on T.V. and in the papers
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| See me at a jam, and catch vapors!
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| Personal |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Personal , by - Ice T. Song from the album The Complete Sire Albums 1987 - 1991, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп