Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Outside The Lounge, artist - Shabaam Sahdeeq.
Date of issue: 31.12.2001
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Outside The Lounge |
Yo, freestyles, reside to the e-ventually |
You might see me, kick the spree |
Get the tape in the Benzi box |
Up in club spots |
On a regular base |
Anytime and place |
What? |
Like Janet |
I slam kids |
Harder than Shaquille O’Neal down to the masses |
I take crews back to, um, hip-hop classes |
Because they didn’t surpass this |
We reside actually, acrobatically, yo… |
Come and burn me if you spit words of flame from your brain |
(What?) Rugged terrain, style insane, you’s the lame |
(Huh) Freestyle or written strictly shittin' on emcees |
Drop these mad degrees on emcees |
Everyday, every night |
You fight for the mic, but you can’t handle it |
I dismantle it, bust you in your head with it |
You know you can’t spit it like I spit it |
Yeah you shit it in the toilet bowl |
You know I got nuff soul |
Y’all control the core cipher |
You know we drop this, and got emcees following like the Pied Piper |
You know we hyper, so… |
Yo, yo, yo; |
can I get a chance to drop in the cipher? |
Set the shit on fire |
Yo why the, beat stop? |
I don’t know, the beat-box is coming in |
Got you counting from one to ten |
And by the time you get up to nine, your ass is left behind |
Cause you can’t mess with the lyrical master rhymes |
Slay niggas to pass the time, coming off the mind or the brain |
Can’t maintain, I’m type strange |
And ill, in the mind of Wiseguy, that’s right |
I’m the baddest on the mic, I’m average height |
Got a huge appetite, sorta like Iron Mike |
'Cept I don’t bite, I just fight, with raps I write |
Use the left and the right, recite styles that’s hype off the top |
Pardon me but stop the beat-box |
Cause yo I got beats son |
(Aw word?) (Aight) My bad, I didn’t mean to kill that shit. |
(That's alright |
Man, y’know what’m sayin?) |
The beats is always love, y’know what I’m sayin'? |
Niggas always show love with the beats |
(My little yellow box, always come in handy) Y’know what I’m sayin'? |
Yo, this is like a wack emcee’s nightmare, y’know what I’m sayin'? |
Thats why I’m right here, y’know what I’m sayin'? |
Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo |
My name’s Kweli, from the Eternally |
Reflection, spruce to the tree, Bruce to the Lee |
Im doin this |
I love the rush that I get seein' a wack emcee’s bottom lip quiver |
He know he gettin' smacked for every wack rhyme he deliver |
Whether in alleys or back streets or the stairwell to Fat Beats |
I come off like the ink that be staining my hand and rap sheets |
With lyrics stronger than Samson, to send Marilyn Manson back to Hell |
The resurrection of Fred Hampton |
You can tell by the way your shit swelled and lump up |
Whenever punks jump up |
They get beat down, for thinking they Bone, creeping on a come up |
Now I got one up |
Are we much more than crabs in a barrel |
Or fags who rap about apparel with an outlook that’s mad narrow? |
We civilized, so on the microphone we vilify |
For proving that the niggas with skills is still alive |
(Still alive) (Still alive) (Still alive) |
Freak that, I’m leavin' rappers hangin' like cave bats |
Or hats on coat racks, I’m rough like porcupine backs |
Smacks the emcees that lack, but, yo, they knew that |
Like the flute, blew through that, with nothing but facts |
DJ’s cut the wax, snare sharp like ax |
Mic apparatus invited to start static |
From basement to attic, get smacked, act dramatic |
I had it with some of these fake rhyming ass faggots |
«Who Shabaam Shadeeq?» |
they ask, mega blast |
Storm forecast, whiplash like car crash |
Black Flag for emcees that multiply |
Act bad, make you dig in your rhyme bag |
Got all the skills you wish you had, dreams you had |
Scorch that ass and make you take the words back |
To the foundation of that whack verse creation |
Double S, who wan' test? |
smash your face in |
Yeah, yo, yo; |
my shops cop? |
more 'neath? |
Things in caster rock |
And get you open with the combination, like master lock |
Let it be known, that none could ever pass the Block |
And when the spot get blown, I hit you with the? |
yeah, first shot? |
Traffic stop when I’m jammin, cause I got more back than gammon |
Slammin those that oppose my flow like salmon |
Foes be standing clear, cause, yo, they can’t compare |
The only thing that could hang in hear is a chandelier |
This man could care less what them say, kick it like sensai |
Then stay, on your mind like Ash on a Wednesday |
He at a loss style, got no cause to smile |
I toss that ass all across, kinda like a foster child |
It’s Mr. Metaphor, everybody gather 'round |
Live in stereo sound and very profound |
Deeper than a burial ground, I’m aerial bound and shuttin' |
Comp down as I rock like Charles Dutton |
From Kings to Putnam, I cut 'em from every angle |
Far from a square cause I wreck when I tangle |
Minds I mangle, mics I strangle in advance |
In any circumstance I leave you shook like turbulence |
You’ll never get this, I’m up in that ass like a tetanus |
Met twist rhymes and drop more lines than Tetris |
I’m sicker than asbestos, spraying rhymes like a pesticide |
Best to step aside, realize who the best is |
One two, one two |
The Scienz of Life, BX to New Jeruz |
One two, one two |
Yeah, the Scienz of Life, BX to New Jeruz |
Yo, let’s go back like Gilgamesh epics |
With fact-challenging methods |
The rhythm stays energetic |
The pen’s motions kinetic |
See Heaven sent styles, bless the ears of my peers |
Even older heads get contacted |
From bomb tactic |
Exploding in your nearest tabernacle, Holy like Kadesh |
HTM, bow lyricists |
You feel it in your chest son, like that Nine Ether |
Sound right, reasin em, pleasin em through the speaker |
For years and years mad heads doubted me |
Then I changed hiphop, into new-op, its best described as alchemy |
The scientist, applying this throughout the global |
I stays universal with the vocal |
Attracting your focal points with each joint performed at live shows |
While Lilsci' verbally fly with dime flows |
My mind grows, being divine, strolls, by the Master |
One verse could cause cataclysmic disaster |
But the truth hurts to be murder with spoken words |
Profound sound all in your section |
No question |
The Scienz of Life, don’t confuse it |
Aiyyo if it don’t sound right than it ain’t music |
Alright, alright fellas, fellas, fellas, fellas, hold on, hold on |
Hold up a second |
You guys, you guys can’t be making this noise |
With the music and everything. |
(Aw, come on!) |
You gotta leave this area. |
I gotta clear this spot |
(We gotta go inside right now) So get on line. |
(We got tickets) |
So get on line (We got tickets) |
Alright, alright, you gonna get, you got tickets |
So get on line, and get out of this area |
The line is over there. |
(We were just doing our thing) |
Its all good, its all good. |
Get on line, alright |
(Whatever, whatever) Little youngsters |