| You need a posse the size of the Nazis to attack this
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| And you’re more optomistic than the Sounds of Blackness
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| Flip lines that rip through the chest cavity
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| And I keep going and going just like an Energizer battery
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| Flattery will get you nowhere, unless it’s the derriere
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| And that’ll get you everywhere
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| Went to the flea market, was in the cark, parked it Big fat blunts, if you got it then spark it And with the fisticuffs came the fists
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| And you’ve joined Steven Segal on the Marked for Death hitlist
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| Went back to the 70's and brothers got on grants
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| Cause they can step to some sisters and say «Slap me some skins»
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| Honeydip, and take the squad to the teepee
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| Hit it off, smoke a cig, watch a little TV
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| And if there ain’t no papes there’s no show
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| I’ll just chill and return to kick em in the grill
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| Bust a style while I do it, if you know it oh you knew it If you knew it then you knew it, if I catch a punk chewin
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| Imma drop the flavor fluid on his head, yep I flew it And like Aretha Franklin, your moms is jumping to it So, so, so, where did you go, what do ya know
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| SO many people want to be fly like Joe
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| G.I., E.I., oh lots and lots
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| And rapper can top the Red Hot (Not!)
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| R&B rips hip-hop (Not!)
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| MC Serch is gonna flip-flop (Not!)
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| All my hoes look like sasquatch (Not!)
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| And George Bush gets nuff props
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| Well, anyway, Imma slay slay lay
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| Pull a hoe around my way and make hooker souffle
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| Red Hot Lover Tone would like to thank MC Serch
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| Yo, you’re chill for making me a part of history
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| Kicking em in the grill
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| Finesse, keep a Tech-9 in my dresser
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| Lyrical professor, keep you under pressure
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| Mind like a computer, the inserter
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| Paragraphs of murder, the nightclub flirter
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| This is Nas, kid, you know how it runs
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| I’m waving automatic guns at nuns
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| Sticking up the preachers in the church, I’m a stone crook
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| Serial killer, who works by the phone book
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| For you I got a lot to shoot my songs in here
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| My rhymes are hotter than a prostitute with ghonnerea
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| On the mic I let vocabulary spill
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| (It's like that y’all) That y’all, kick em in the grill
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| The Chubbsta breaks? |
| stabbabi? |
| fakes, steady rate h The panty mix the verse, looks to Serch, kick him in the grill again
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| Part 2, sequel of «The Dialect, The Derelect»
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| The murder licks, Vanilla kicks alive on the crucifix
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| Coming around the mountain, when he comes to sell more record bums
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| Digest the lyrics then you suck on some Tums
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| Crumbs with the energy from the lump sums
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| And lips to to the mixture to the friction and then you’re
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| Hummmmmmming, the door rings, yo I’m coming
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| To a theater near you, get your popcorn and your brew
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| And a Guiness Stout, check the clout when I’m about
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| Cause YOU are a BLABBERMOUTH
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| A blabber, it gets no badder
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| Lyrics on a diet cause it gets no fatter
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| Like a Gewn to the Guthrien, jumping up on the scene
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| With the Serches with the verses
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| Word up, the illustrious
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| Rapper dapper sapper, you want us to sell out your wish
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| My lips have never touched the circumference of a spliff
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| And if you see some Coke or some spill
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| With some ill pill, yo kick me in the grill grill
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| So here’s a true and false, tell me if it’s factable
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| You wanna kill the Klan, shoot the fans a tractor pull
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| Got crazy game, so no one can stop me But ayo, I’m white, I guess my game is hockey
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| Or basketball, football, taking papes in poker
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| If honeydip got a moneyclip I’m gonna stroke her
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| Wait a minute, chill chill, can’t swing
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| Cause my girl ain’t my girl no more, now she got a ring
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| Respect my wisdom like I respect myself
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| To to G I’ll put you in a tree like the Keebler elves
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| You couldn’t be The Mack if you had the car, the hat, the hoe
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| And your shit would still be out the back like a patio
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| Cause I saw you eating pig knuckles, with Frankie Knuckles
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| In a bar called Chuckles wearing name plate belt buckles
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| Goddamn your life is flimsy
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| Gave you nuff respect, but gave it back cause I was stingy
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| So from the cons and pros to the pros and the cons
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| Call me a motherfucker I’ll say «Yeah I fucked your moms»
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| Until she calls back I’m gonna chill
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| Peace to Red Hot Lover Tone, Chubb Rock, kick em in the grill |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Back to the Grill, artist - O.C.. Album song The O-Zone Files: Rare Demos and Unreleased Tracks, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп