| Ladies and gentlemen, you ain’t gotta stay in your element
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| My staff chuckles while brass knuckles scraping your melanin
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| You claiming it was an accident, pay me a settlement
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| You saying you wasn’t having it, I gave it, you yelling, «Quit!»
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| Oh, it’s on the low though? |
| I stuff cigars with stuff from jars
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| Above the stars, M.P., they ain’t heard drums this hard
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| I shoot my load ten feet and they asking if I ever thought I’d come this far
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| Look, I knew I’d do it, the question is who was stupid to mess with this
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| Who was losing a second, this music scooped and the weapon is
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| To his crew and the message is, «Don't push me»
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| You’re so pussy that you’re oozing with estrogen
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| Straightjacket tightened by my psycho ward
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| And he straight up forgot to lace up my Michael Jordans
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| I don’t write no chorus, my alterego writes those for us
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| Fuck a tree dog, I light whole forests
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| I’ve got the flows to toast most approachers
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| And got the toes so foes don’t approach us
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| Nah, Jakki brought the shotty and a case, check it
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| Liquor’ll make em drop Shells quicker than J Records
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| And the crowd’s mine, I’ll out-rhyme your hood
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| I’m outside with about nine guys, it’s good
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| While you peasants crowd by my foot to rhyme when I’m done
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| But that’s saying they’re trying to get outshined like Suge
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| Look, you pussies either roll eight or one
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| Trying to jump me but still can’t, they hate on son
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| They’ll get their money jacked, see me in the span of a few years
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| Do shit till they see me off Jack, Patron, and a few beers
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| Mixture of Big L, Big Pun, and Biggie
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| With an attitude like Jigga so if you come and get me
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| Bring eight people, a spiked bat and a gun to clip me
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| And if I got you for money wait until I’m drunk to hit me, pussy
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| Matter fact, you ain’t even a pussy
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| You’re what bleeds when the summer’s eve cleaning the pussy
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| C.O.P. |
| you freestyle to see no fee
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| I am the C.O. |
| bringing it to you COD
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| Cash on delivery, and no one can do it better, shit
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| I’m the D-O-C with OCD, spit heat like a Creole feast
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| That’s why they be on Pete’s dick to the point I don’t see my own feet
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| I can introduce you to your maker
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| You got a problem with me homeboy, step to me
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| Strap you down and slap you ‘round
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| Yeah I said it
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| Star sprinter, run any track flash above par
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| Blow sniffer, jacking coke like a bartender
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| Punchlines till your bar’s tender so celebs cars enter
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| And we’re shooting stars like Haley’s Comet denting car fenders
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| My car’s bouncing, got hydraulics and metal toys
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| Yours ride’s mind’s playing tricks like the Geto Boys
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| Why am I lying? |
| I ain’t got the car and I’m unemployed
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| My rent’s due in a day and on it I don’t have but a coin
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| No pot to piss in or to cop a squat and drop my shit in
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| Radio off so I can listen to my couch petition
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| Alka Seltzer plop and fizzing from vodka sipping
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| Waking up with a naked slut and my boxers missing
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| Hip hop is getting out of control
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| Every coward that flows is a gangster till the powder’s out of his nose
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| Man in '95 I thought music was losing its touch
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| Compared to now that was a golden era, who would’ve thunk?
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| Now this shit is full of gimmicks, energy, cynics, and critics
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| Who hate one minute then the next want finish your sentence
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| This fake game makes we want to take names
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| With the chrome in hand and take aim like I own this, man
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| But I’m not trying to spend life beneath dirt
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| Or with Shyne and C-Murder
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| I grind til each word’s in the mind of each person populating earth
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| Cop the tape and stop the hating jerk |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Get Busy , by - Marco Polo. Song from the album Port Authority, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп