Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Stress , by - Organized Konfusion. Release date: 15.08.1994
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Stress |
| You can fool me but I cannot fuck with Rudy Gulliani |
| Press the panic button, shit it’s the schizophranic, can it I can kill it from the West Coast to the Atlantic |
| Nowadays it seems it’s hard to maintain |
| Can’t take the stress, yes God, I’m going insane |
| If you can fill my veins say Yes |
| If you can feel the pain say Stress |
| Pharoahe, I possess the skills to bring it to yor chest |
| With lyrics and manifestation for the entire nation |
| With his excellency Prince standing next to me And especially Extra P on the SP |
| 12 zero zero, I stand tall and be a hero |
| In times of stress, the Pharoahe won’t fess |
| Crush, kill, destroy, stress (Repeat 16x) |
| Now nothing ain’t deeper than having to throw a nigga in the sleeper |
| Don’t stress, and take that shit from Large Profess |
| Cause I be on the train trying to maintain |
| Getting lower than the whole while the record man gain |
| And it make me want to sting somebody, with the shottie |
| Cause I can’t relate to living less than great |
| So I while I make a fat beat to eat |
| Some of my mans from John Ball high school are sleeping in the street |
| That stress shit is ill, if you let it, it will |
| Having your ass on the staircase smoking a scrill |
| Never that for me, nigga my name’s Extra P I can’t afford to be stressed the fuck out in '93 |
| Or '94, cause everybody knows my solution |
| to being stressed is looking at the front door |
| Crush, kill, destroy, stress (Repeat 8x) |
| God knows I can’t take this stress |
| Working my fingers to the bone, my middle fingers for all you rap singers |
| Not representing your hood |
| I stroll through the projects giving niggas dap cause my respect’s good |
| Verbal assassinator, sharp with the tounge, I come |
| Out of my pockets to fulfill a wish before another brother |
| And another one, that you’re looking for |
| Mr. Bigot, officer, I’m legit, now can you dig it? |
| Hey lady, I don’t want your pocketbook, my black ass |
| Don’t like my ass black? |
| I’d rather cross the street leaving a stupid look |
| On your grill, spark a phil, parlay |
| ?Hosey toe? |
| in the spot, call up? |
| Concay? |
| Extra Large Profess, give the rest of the old funk |
| So what I left the rhyme on the dresser |
| My man Dy-Lou, he’s in this, rest in peace, you’re in here |
| ?Reckapice? |
| you be the daddy, God knows you’re in there |
| Sincere’s the queer cause the East is representing |
| Baby doll, Prince is my name, shit’s real, so listen |