Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Celebration, artist - Jay-Z. Date of issue: 11.05.1998
Song language: English
Celebration |
| What you think you like me? |
| You ain’t like me motherfucker |
| You a punk, I been with made people, connected people |
| Who you been with? |
| Chain snatchin', jive-ass, maricon motherfuckers |
| Why don’t you go get lost |
| Get out of here, go kick a freestyle or somethin' |
| You’re now tuned into the greatest |
| Motherfuckers can’t beat us, join us, can’t fade us, hate us |
| Can’t touch it, fuck it, can’t see 'em, try to be 'em |
| Both shows sold out your coliseum, 8th Wonder |
| Locked rap for three summers, poker faces with the aces under |
| Phase one of the takeover, the break’s over |
| Nigga, I’m the God MC, me, Jay-Hovah |
| Shit knockin', almost a crime, get Cochran |
| Bangin' to the hearse where my doctors hand |
| Hot land, FBI, DEA, I did crime, got away |
| They wanna see me pay, motherfuckers better ride |
| If they try to plant, under the seat of my car |
| Even a half a gram, better flame those, plainclothes |
| Same goes for lame hoes, cocaine rapper |
| Rep ya game pros |
| We celebrate this, while you sittin' back screamin' you hate this |
| Try to rape this, get caught in my crime matrix |
| Spittin' sperm inside of latex |
| You get, no respect like a child rapist |
| Delegate this, men just givin' face lifts |
| Leave your melon spacious, career felon, no hiatus |
| Nor Caesar’s, the CIA flooded my block with diseases |
| Informants, heatin' the spot up like global warmin' |
| Who start *shit*? |
| My style is laced with arsenic |
| Odorless tasteless, cause of death is traceless |
| I know you wanna see me wasted |
| You call the order, I’ll be in Hell |
| Team Roc sweater and ice water |
| Righteous, dominate the global, my life’s a novel |
| Blazin in Barnes and Noble, idolize the vocals |
| Y’all niggas is local but that’s evident |
| I’m Resident Evil, movin' like (?) |
| Millionaire that flow like water, rap *niggas* runnin' |
| I, oughta applaud ya, clap at ya |
| Point the MAC at ya, *niggas* caught up |
| Brought up in the rapture, my flows torture |
| Like a compound fracture, can’t *fuck* widdit |
| For the love of sex money and drugs |
| Affiliated with the sets, TECs, honies and thugs |
| Let the four power, rain on niggas like a spring shower |
| And bring flowers for the bodies that surround us |
| If you was lookin' you found us |
| Movin' with speed, tried to play Superman |
| Ended up like Chris Reeves |
| Paraplegic, precise minds like the Pharaohs of Egypt |
| Shot through a barrel niggas narrowly weaved it |
| Keepin' my Team top seeded with the Sweet 16's |
| Bulgin' out of my jeans, on the ten-speed weeded |
| Holdin', share these shots with you like a secret |
| It’s like a story never told, but believe it… |
| Street anthem anchor, quick to trade shots just like a banker |
| Lick a round, niggas hit the ground like Sanka |
| I got ya screwface in forty-two ways |
| Aim better than toothpaste, Jerry Maguire |
| «Show Me The Money» like Clue tapes |
| Run up in your spot with a few eights, zonin' |
| Known men, home in, all of my homies condone sin |
| Four shots spin ya like chrome rims |
| Put a part right through your dome like the Omen, foamin' |
| White sheets got ya wrapped like a Roman |
| Back in New York, honey wants it, just spit blood and talk funny |
| Like dark rooms, hits fat, cub with a harpoon |
| Heat-seekin', grill huntin', still frontin'? |
| Keep squeezin', *fuck it*, I leave the whole street wheezin' |
| No *motherfuckers* hope I fail, and gotta provoke the frail |
| Got 'em scared to drop like soap in jail |
| Geah, there you have it |
| Just think of ours as can’t be touched, tested, whatever |
| Never disrespect this thing of ours |
| Roc-A-Fella family |