Lyrics 6 Shooter - Illy, Purpose, J. Stark

6 Shooter

It’s uh Mr 'If The-If The City Had A'
Turn the bass up till the place jump and the window shatter
Miss me with the banter, my man, I been a factor
The benefactor with ink — your man’s the missing chapter
Phizzle, this a banger, Illy let’s get it cracking
Twist the fabric of time with a rhyme, my style is systematic
I scribble something so ill you wish that you didn’t catch it
Twist a fat one and sprinkle this here with a little magic
When you and your friends rhyme it’s bedtime, I’m snoring
Whether or not I headline, yes I’m supporting
Flavour drip through the speaker when I’m recording
If charisma’s a disease I could be dead by the morning
My man, we are the entire fuck out here
Lights up, Ryan’s up, fire up the sound gear
Been accused of the recklessness but I don’t dispute the evidence
I just reload the clip and shoot the messenger
Hey it’s that bloke from the water’s edge
One stroke gets your daughter wet
You’re getting served like you haven’t ordered yet
I score a rep by putting verses in the morgue
Till my services are more sought after than a whore’s
I’m getting plenty buddy, how you getting yours?
I’m getting paid the pen and page, add a little more
We smack a stage till it needs to be restored
And I do this shit because I love it not because I’m bored
Moved away from Beauy but it’s pumping through my heart
Now I represent the Frankston line and going fucking hard
Aiming for the stars, been rolling from the start
Now I’m sharing tracks with motherfuckers holding golden plaques
Braithwaite Steeze, Wild animal mentality
And haters getting mad at rappers doubling their salary
They’re talking shit, I ain’t hearing what they telling me
The colour that they seeing’s greener than a stick of celery
Celery
Yeah
Introductions aside, you askin' who am I?
I’m the owner of a gallery, your tour guide
And you can leave with stained shirts
'Cause tryna understand how my brain works is suicide
I got a beautiful mind covered in sewer slime
And if you look a little closer there’s a clue inside
To get past the putrid grime like few have tried
Then you could possibly ruin your eyes
Am I crazy?
You decide
All I know is my rhymes are so pimped that I write them in a suit and tie
I’m Superman flying through the sky
But you guys wouldn’t recognise a hero in a new disguise
Life’s like shooting the dice or gambling
But you just rambling, standing with your hand on the mic
I ain’t battling an amateur, get your calibre right
I’ll leave you pussies afraid like you’re Hannibal’s wife
Check the floodgates (what) that door needs closing shut
They’re like a fuckface in porn scenes, I know they suck
Put ‘em on parole so they can walk free to go get fucked
Get your own style 'cause y’all seem to be clones of us
With no character, boring stoner cunts
It’s so embarrassing, it’s like the Portuguese showing up
The Spanish with Brazil, the whole East is owned by us
I have 'em crashing at will like torpedoes blowing up (boom)
Hit the battleship and all fleets that floated sunk
Quicker than a cattle whip on raw meat drove to cuts
The prodigal son, since fourteen token bud
Still tropical sun with tall trees and coconuts
My art sells for peanuts like poor street folk that busk
The Cartel Team bust with more heat than smoking guns (blam)
One of the finest, If you fought me you only just survived if you’re Irish
Four-leaf clover luck
Uh
If you were gifted then it must have been a lump of coal
But still you’re full of yourself like one of them Russian dolls
If you’re shooting for the top you should adjust the goals
If I walked a mile in your shoes it would crush my soul
Saw you live, who would pay though to book yah?
If you tried to get some girls there then they overlooked yah
Men, men, men like that lame show with Kutcher
Total sausage fest like a trade show for butchers
Uh, this is Adelaide talking, I’m an animal coursing
Through my preys, natural habitat stalking
Just hungry, if there’s beef then I’m jabbing my fork in
At the mere fuckin' mention of a battle they walking
And if not then they got more than your standard death wish
Weird, most of them are sweeter than a candy necklace
Always got something left to write like I was ambidextrous (yeah)
And if my music’s declined.
how come my fans accept it?
(yo)
Chopping up with blunt papes, rocking with a verse
Hopping off the runway, dropping in a vert
Either way I’m rolling, optimal at worst
You ain’t seeing me unless you got binoculars at work (bi-atch)
But don’t get mad about it, be a man about it
Chin up, it’s brand-spanking steeze, hand back the hand-me-downers
Swap those rhymes and swallow pride
They still paying dues off 'em on borrowed time
And cue my flows monsoon shit
You pals dog food, barking up the wrong eucalypt
Six-shooters, grip mics
We see red and blast like a hoover crip
Higher than thread counts on your goose-down dooners, bitch
It’s big kahuna shit, and I ain’t heard of you
Small fries in big towns, man up or sit down
Mercenary spits, hired guns on the disc, bound
To kill by the contract, and keep putting hits out