| Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens Manhattan, Staten Island
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| Keith! |
| In the house
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| It ain’t about the bitch with a wig like she comin from China
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| Y’all fronted in rented Benzes with Avis on 'em
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| No breakfast, I’m goin home, fuck Chelsea or diner
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| Let the guys with the chrome buckets expose the cuffs, be a co-signer
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| I’m in your ass man, close like your Starter jacket liner
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| Dr. J sharper, plug your asshole up with a tub stopper
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| Your wife’s a New York City Breaker
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| Your baby’s mom is a pop-locker, know the metropolitan area
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| Custodian nigga, you sanitation worker shit cleaner
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| Floor mopper, look down on the city with binoculars
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| Piss out at choppers
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| Defecate 80 thousand feet in the air
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| I flip your small game, take your small urban territory
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| Put the street in the air
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| My shit rise, increase like subway fare
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| Scuffle your dinner wear
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| Your sneaker line ain’t makin it, I piss on four pair
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| You know the big-head boy from the projects, retarded motherfucker
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| You know you be in child care, you better stay there
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| Your crew get picked up with shitty diapers from daycare
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| Your foe be his crib death
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| The top rappers receive hot dogs up they ass, they get F Mark flush the toilet, you shit next
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| Expand your stomach range with tummy pains
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| Shit in the back of your Bentley when it rains
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| Leave your wooden panels with shit stains
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| Throw the turds out the windows
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| Watch them bounce in the carpool lanes
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| Hot 97
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| The shit expand, over your Jacob the diamond watch
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| The penis is loose, we piss in your hand
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| Yo… yo where’s the block at? |
| Uhh
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| They say 106th &Park is on, I’m mad, fuck it it’s on I haven’t heard a hard record in years, uhh
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| Everybody dancin, Harlem Shakin, strip Free naked
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| And put a pole up, and watch the ratings go up And if AJ steps, take his Jacob and slap off the makeup
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| I’m in the crowd like Lee Malvo, with a sniper rifle
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| A hockey mask, a butcher knife
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| Yo who knows what I’ll do They sellin dreams with a rap battle — uh-huh
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| Look — yeah — you rappers are kids, and rappin with a rap rattle
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| … nobody ever comes out — that’s right
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| No twelve inches, no fires, no jets
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| Early retired, no links
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| No chains, no videos, no baguettes — uhh
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| «Don't Speak,"uh-huh — I’m gettin Gwen Stefani
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| She’s tossed up, sellin pussy like every week
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| So don’t fight me — uhh, you can hype me — that’s right
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| I’m liable to go out with a terrorist style
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| I’m liable to flow out with a terrible style
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| Viacom bought you (suckers)
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| I’m outta here nigga I’m changin the dial
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| Hot 97
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| No more cars and shit, we suicide bombers
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| Nigga, walk up in your radio station
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| We get gas from the gas station nigga
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| You better ask public relations, blow out your DJ booth
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| With hats off, like motherfuckin Dr. Seuss
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| No buckets, strictly bombs under the North Face goose
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| Caught you with acid baby
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| We put it in your motherfuckin orange juice
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| Fuck a turned up cap
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| How bout a burnt up motherfuckin baseball cap
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| With a whack-ass rap
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| We detonate with three sticks of dynamite through your turntables
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| Blow out your ass crack
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| You ain’t the motherfuckin pimp, you ain’t the motherfuckin mack
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| Review this right, you gon’drink a daquiri
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| Are you gon’come back to me Are you gon’get smacked from me Fuck around look how you act to me… bitch… Hot 97 |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Dunk On Them , by - Kool Keith. Song from the album Lost Masters Collection, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп