Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Soul on Ice, artist - Ras Kass. Date of issue: 11.06.2007
Song language: English
Soul on Ice |
| The waterproof MC, you ain’t wettin me You need to stop rappin and start robbin banks like Steady B Cause see, no matter how much green you make |
| You’ll never taste the avocado, just another broke Versace model |
| Tiger Woods ain’t even up to par in the game of survival |
| That’s why I’m pissin in y’all Cristal bottles |
| Drink Listerine, brush my teeth with amphetamine |
| So I can sound fresh and say dope things in between |
| Three strikes to five mics — forever snortin |
| I want a woman with the body of a whore and a personality like Lauryn |
| Can’t even say I didn’t know |
| Cause while we wanna be N.W.A. |
| they create the N.W.O. |
| How many years, fo’mo'- so fuck the fake John Gotties |
| Ain’t got no Mazzeraties I be at the party sippin hot toddies |
| My shit pumpin everything, out Audis in Saudi |
| I’m +Thuggish Ruggish+ to the Bone, |
| and I’m gonna diss everybody. |
| and I’m gonna diss everybody. |
| You want the truth, can’t handle the truth |
| You want Lexus moonroof, Hennesssy 80 proof |
| Scared to death, playin the game of life. |
| Soul on Ice |
| I keep the afterparty swervin, not quite like Michael Irvin |
| Edumacating urban youth, like it or not |
| These soliloquies explain our people’s lack of stability |
| You keepin it real, but ain’t got a clue what reality really be See the diameter of your knowledge is the circumference of your activity |
| Me, I knew the deal before Babyface went solo; |
| baggin dime pieces |
| stackin dividends and dressin in more linen than Yoko Ono |
| But on the low doe we fightin over the scraps |
| Worshippin the almighty dollar — In God We Trust, look it over |
| Now what the fuck pyramids got to do with the pilgrims or Jehovah |
| Novus Ordo Seclorum means New World Order |
| That’s why I keep my friends close and my enemies closer |
| We runnin around in thousand dollar clown suits |
| Better get some boots when Lucifer turn your city to Beirut, nigga |
| I avoid one-time |
| Got Lela Rochon callin my genitals sunshine |
| Fifth floor of the Mandriane, so go 'head nigga pop your Dom |
| I’m the man whose esophagus transform to a fuckin gat like Megatron |
| Here’s a sport unknown to Bob Costas, give it a name and you a hater |
| But violence don’t play that game, man |
| Guerilla penmanship, the, preacher impeacher |
| Heat seeker MC when I get pissed like a urethra |
| My day-to-day I’m tryin to bubble, first place |
| This paper I chase, Touch Me and Tease Me like Case |
| But in the millenium, CREAM turns electronic |
| UPC barcodes on the hand is demonic |
| They got concentration camps, from Alaska to Jersey |
| But when the President declare a national emergency |
| He payin car notes tryin to +Rock the Vote+ |
| I’m spittin razor-sharp quotes tryin to slit the Pope’s throat |
| Uh, uh. |
| yeah |
| I’m rhymin — beats provided by Diamond |