| Who is the man with the hats with the snaps
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| Droppin' the raps with the truth, to the youth that’s bustin' the caps?
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| Who could it be? |
| Is it a bird? |
| Is it a plane? |
| Is it a tree?
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| No, it’s me: Capital-A, capital-S, capital-E
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| Boomin' like thunda, strikin' like lightnin'
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| Welcome to my Slaughtahouse, I know it’s frightenin'
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| I’m hittin' em over the head with lyrical styles like a bottle
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| My foot’s on the pedal, my hand is on the throttle
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| I’m turbo-boostin' from Houston to Vegas
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| You want us to quit, but shit, you can’t make us
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| There’s too much money to make, money to get, money to earn
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| My pockets are on «E», and I want money to burn
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| I got GUSTO, plus yo, I’m zeekin' 'em
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| Rollin' with L.D., Ken, Eyce, and Neek and 'em
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| Phat tracks, I’m freakin' 'em, word to your auntie
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| It’s written all over your face, I know you want me
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| Scientifical mathematical war
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| Rhymes and beats harder than Trigonometry 4
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| So open your books to page one, and I’ll show you how it’s done
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| It’s the roughneck kid without a gun
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| I’m laughin'-- ha ha! |
| -- it’s fun to watch you weep as
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| You’re cryin', dyin', try and figure out the Jeep Ass
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| Nig-guh, bigger and better and badder than ever before
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| Hittin' with hardcore lyrical calesthenics that make me sore
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| And the shower of fire, supplier of the real
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| Get with the program and I’m slammin' like Shaquille
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| Right on your head, do what I said, backin' me up is the D:
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| (Lord Digga:)You must be crazy if you wanna mess with me
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| Cuz I am not the one, kid
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| Oh no, he ain’t the one, son
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| The shank in my sock will chop you like an onion
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| So Boom, head for the hills, head for the freakin' border
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| I slaughter, like Great White Sharks, I’m makin' sparks
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| Comin' from the Big East, boy, we ain’t slippin'
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| («Don't you know?») Don’t even think about it, yeah
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| As I walk through Brooklyn, Compton or whatever
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| I wonder why black folks don’t wanna stick together
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| We talk about justice, and how little we get
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| Yet black men be killin' black men for talkin' shit… (right…right…)
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| («Here's the one, that one that always talkin' shit…»)
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| How the hell we supposed to wage war against the powers that be
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| When we are still our own worst enemy
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| That’s why I’m the Masta, I’m tryin' to tell you kid
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| I’ll break it down simply, right back to the freestiddyle
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| I’m bashin' --BREAKIN'-- I’ll fry you like bacon
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| I don’t smoke blunts, boy, you must be mistaken
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| I do smoke mics and MCs that come widdem
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| I hit 'em and get 'em and sit 'em down, then I spit 'em
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| Out some lyrical phlegm from deep within me
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| I’m not John, but I’m Madd-en I’ll give you Moore than Demi
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| I burn like tobasco, your ass, yo don’t beg (?)
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| Miss Crabtree, Stumpy said you had a wooden leg
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| So I brought my axe and a box full of termites
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| Cuz I got your big, fat booty in my sites
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| I’m not from Philly, but I fly like an Eagle
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| My rap book is thicker than a catalog from Spiegel
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| A Regal, I do not drive, I drive a Jeep and
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| I should say drove one, some suckers caught me sleepin'
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| But next time they break in my car to rip the Ase off
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| I’ll have a pitbull waitin' to rip their freakin' face off
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| (Sick 'em boy…)
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| («On and on and on, it’s on…» «On and on and on, it’s on…») |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song The Big East, artist - Masta Ace Incorporated. Album song SlaughtaHouse, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп