Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Launch A Shot, artist - Molemen
Date of issue: 15.12.2001
Song language: English
Launch A Shot |
Yo, check it out |
Uh, yeah, South side nigga |
What? |
all my live niggas |
What? |
all my live niggas |
All my live niggas, yo, yo yo |
Guard your shot |
Whether it’s on or not |
Guard your block |
Beef then storm the spot |
Alarm the cops |
Stick you then pawn your watch |
No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock |
Oh God, I get charged out of nowhere |
Battlin' me is like Afghanistan, nobody want to go there |
Especially when I’m charged off the cannibus toke |
Puff the dutch too much, lungs damaged with smoke |
You can front on the lyrics but you know they sound strong |
I walk down the blocks these bitch niggas ain’t found on |
Diss me, get clowned on |
That’s how it happen |
I bomb shit, no nonsense, my style of rappin' |
So vicious, perfect, flawless, no glitches |
And after the show, I’m shacked up with yo mistress |
Yo bitches! |
I’m runnin' game heavily |
To broads I’m Barry Bonds, I’m tryin' to hit 70 |
Memo came to me with the hot track |
Said, «I heard you rock phat.» |
Asked for dope lyrics, shit I got that |
Hardcore, fly the Condor |
Who want war? |
Impress the crowd and make 'em scream «Encore» |
Niggas |
Guard your shot |
Whether it’s on or not |
Guard your block |
Beef then storm the spot |
Alarm the cops |
Stick you then pawn your watch |
No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock |
Yo, y’all niggas talkin' bout the street life but really couldn’t live it |
Watch your back punk, you might catch bullets in it |
These cats pussy like Monistat, bomb your rap |
Your album’s faker than Michael Jackson’s skin, I can’t honor that |
The hungriest |
Technique like the drunken fist |
Lyrical cunningness, all haters can suck a dick |
I ain’t adjust shit homes, I beg your pardon |
Don’t address the Sargent, I bring death like The Headless Horseman |
Raw rhymes like P, I’m 'bout that |
Me without skills, like the ghetto without crack |
How’s about that |
I just snap like bra straps |
Test me, I hunger for blood |
Get your jaw tapped |
Who dares to try to master |
Walkin' fire hazard |
Natural disaster, blast ya |
To you nerd fucks who think you mastered the art |
Go back to The Yellow Brick Road and get you some heart |
Plus lyrically, or on the street, you don’t want the ruckus |
I rain on Tin Man MC’s and leave them rusted |
Metaphor forever raw, lyrical predator |
Go to war like He-Man and Skeletor |
And fuck wack, cause dope is all I settle for |
I play the rap game until I get a better score |
And right now my niggas lookin' like a blow out |
Grab the mic and show out never hold out |
No doubt |
Guard your shot |
Whether it’s on or not |
Guard your block |
Beef then storm the spot |
Alarm the cops |
Stick you then pawn your watch |
No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock |
Guard your shot |
Whether it’s on or not |
Guard your block |
Beef then storm the spot |
Alarm the cops |
Stick you then pawn your watch |
No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock |
I’ve been in this shit since Rakim was Fiendin' for Mics |
When gold chains was the shit, nobody’s thinkin' of ice |
When the music bang hard, no debatin' it’s soul |
Then the labels got sheist and took creative control |
Now we got senior rappers |
Lo and behold |
Gettin' rich off lies and borrowed flows |
Can’t record and snap |
But I’m advanced like a cordless lamp |
I make your crew look inferior with a chorus chant |
So who want it? |
I make the Earth lose orbit |
Chicago talk shit and lose your life for it |
Guard your shot |
Whether it’s on or not |
Guard your block |
Beef then storm the spot |
Alarm the cops |
Stick you then pawn your watch |
No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock |
Guard your shot |
Whether it’s on or not |
Guard your block |
Beef then storm the spot |
Alarm the cops |
Stick you then pawn your watch |
No fake shit, real MC’s born to rock |