Lyrics Shirley C - Random Axe, FATT FATHER

Shirley C

Pursuing the papes, you give me the loot in the safe
Hand on your throat, choke til you’re blue in the face
Listen, welcome to the zoo, I’m the ape
Cornelius, long foregone so be gone with the silly shit
I write «raps For dummies» but I ain’t an idiot
I might slap you, money, cause Ruckus is ignorant
Listen, I got no home-training
Just crack water pushed through the holes of a strainer
Chess boxer, sket popper, death doctor
Kevorkian, a native New-Yorkian
Back when Santana used to rock bandanas
I sold coke hand-to-hand, fam, gram scrambler
Game is old, I needed a new challenge
Picked up a pen and pad and a grey new balance
Write what I feel, I don’t feel like writin'
I feel like fightin', you gon' feel Mike Tyson
Random Axe, random slaps, random gats
Til my pockets Ralph Kramden fat, nigga
I’m the shit performin'
Homie say I need a hit, so I’mma have a hit put on him
The foreman, George better grill with caution
Hole in top of your dome, you chill with dolphin
Call it dead man’s float
But a diss rap to me is a suicide note
Cause ya’ll chumps is soft
And I’ll pistol-whip clowns 'til the gun go off
How the metal taste, featherweight?
My berettas up your level, help you elevate
Cloud surfing, angelic
Halo’d out and mad at the person, you can get it
One-third part of the unmovable force
Shoot your mouth, I’ll shoot your boss, flat out
Invested in the war and we won’t back out
Beef turns to peace with the big mac out
I’m half cannon, half cannibal
I shut off lights like DTE, you power his clip
The only thing you devour is dick
You all lip, I took trips to places with a pound or a flip
Yeah I’m fat, but I’m proud of the shit
I like grits and long walks in the park where the cobble is big
Psyche, total opposite, as rock as eclipse
Empty your pockets, my kids want a pop and some chips
The hottest to spit, widen as my logic permits
By all means, I deposit the rent, with no rules
My gangster way deeper than Pro-Tools
Old school, catch me in the bar with a lit Kool and O’Douls
From the gutter where they tote tools
And sell crack out of two-room flats to cop some mo' shoes
So rude, inherited from my old dude
Instrumental terrorist, all win, I don’t lose