Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Sterns to Western, artist - People Under The Stairs. Album song Question in the Form of an Answer, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 01.06.2000
Record label: Om
Song language: English
Sterns to Western |
It’s like fabulous, |
We all out keens, bless the talented |
So who’s here to handle this |
I’m the prime candidate |
Keeping a far distance |
between me and the common folk |
doesn’t matter if you shall rely to rip your monotone |
they call me L-E-X-U girl you know the rest |
I add an S because I’m special |
get well and got blessed |
So we can battle you n me on payperview |
Kid Lexus coming to a neighbourhood near you |
Now you in danger, shell shock, now you got caught |
Your plan wasn’t well thought, yo, perhaps you should walk |
No need for lollygagging, especially when Brandon’s rappin on the mic |
I’m like a cannon so it ain’t hard to imagin |
turn my mic off, I gotta go, I gotta be alone |
I feel it now, I’m goin home, somebody please take me home |
Double K |
Ayo, I think that I should mention, the way that we be lynchin' |
utilizing the beat like housewives to the kitchen |
Man, it’s Stephen Cool King, bring horror in ya life |
Causin pain and strife holdin a black knife |
No need for the violence cuckoo straighter hair like Violet |
Not worryin about the back talk we fuckin trains of thought |
derail ya whack emcees, while I rock on the track |
Take a puff on the black, man I don’t wanna hear ya rap |
so don’t do it in my presence, I rip ya like a gift |
destroy your whole direction, you’re going to need protection |
Aw fuck it, I’m like sherm on your final term paper |
we drivin you nuts, just put a P in the suss |
yeah man I’m kinda clever like old jewish dudes |
Put the pen to the paper and what ya got’s a fresh caper |
matter the dappa dee and the threads are 88 |
and I ain’t getting off the mic |
till I clean my funky plate |
Ayo, we’re not done, we’re not done |
More shows, free booze, bad news, and new cruise |
Fool we come to ya town be prepared to get slapsed |
So sing along to the funk and wait for the homey to rap |
It’s like lalalala laaaaaa lalalalalaaaaa lalalalalaaaaa lalalalalaaaa |
Thes One |
The park from the normal tracks when I brainstorm |
I rain forever and every last track sort of fits |
That’s scap they stole my shit that most cleverly writ |
so witness that poetic aesthetic perfection spittin cat |
publicly published the beat phat with a ph |
deconstruct corrupt mcs that front bay |
Oh well amazin all that junk punk I sunk |
ya battleship dunce once my lips spit arightoutta ya spine |
Soundwaves, thes on the dotted line, and skip the fine print |
when I imprint my mint monogram of fame |
on ya skeletal frame, since I stock |
graph the vat like Rustonium stock caps |
they will make ya needle skip, make ya caps clog, scuff ya shell toes |
I flip the fake rappers like Al pogs |
I got a rhyme for every fine girl |
and wittier like jam the track like beavers on a railroad |
near a river when I deliver |
the cool concentrate it shivers ya prostate |
I get pissed off when I gotta wait |
for rappers to finish their freestyles |
every time I rhyme my train of thought |
I turn style to Bart, I’m worthwhile |
like the Blemids chillin in Springfield |
I’m ill and still don’t do no shows in Shelbyville |
At jams I kill competition like the running man |
running things like airbrushed jeans a gaddam. |