| One, two, three, four
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| Grimy bitch stomp the bogey outside your front door (yeah)
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| Puffin on Goodie, eatin tuna and rye
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| Blow the spot with some old school shit from junior high (HEYYY!)
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| One, two, three, four
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| Jersey’s finest in the house, punchlines and metaphors
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| Make your foul ice grill, thug grimy on the real
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| Puttin heads to bed like Hennessey and NyQuil
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| Convertible style, still had the heat knockin
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| Bumpin shit from way back with my man beatboxin
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| Shootin the breeze — see I’m nice with these
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| You’ll be suckin it down like fast food high-C's
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| Type of rap bitch that love underground classics
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| Gettin more green than that nigga St. Patrick
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| Makin wack rappers go and merc the set
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| Better off behind a desk tryin to surf the net
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| Cause I be adamant, kill 'em when my joints get added in
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| Worse than boric acid in your project cabinet
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| Dirty Harriet, increase the fanbases
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| Leavin non-writin cats stuck on the plantations
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| Mini-skirts with tights, eatin lunch with whites
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| Leave the party over here like they Israelites
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| Got Cali Brooks critics, Ta' Kwe'(??) Xzibit
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| Gonna rock shit down like he can’t get no visits
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| One, two, three, four
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| Rock the whole world like the Rolling Stone tour (AH-AHHH!)
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| Raw your wack set is faker than a bomb threat
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| By a nervous terrorist who’s so scared that his palms wet
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| One, two, three, four
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| The stuff legends are made of, urban folklore
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| Like Jim Morrison we break on through
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| Before I care about your take on me, we take on you
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| Yo, yo, yo
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| We bring it straight to your face from the start, yo
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| Rage Against the Machine, break it apart
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| Might be over your head, but it’s straight from the heart
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| I show my love in the light while y’all hate in the dark
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| Straight to apocalypse is where I’m takin the art
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| Givin niggas battle scars, ALWAYS makin my mark
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| You fakin the part of gangster, til niggas break in your spot
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| You straight bitch whether I say it or not
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| Shit is hot, spittin flames on the track
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| Put our town’s names on the map
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| From now until we fadin to black
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| Where we at? |
| Thug rebels love metal clubs ghetto
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| When the slugs let go like Frankie Beverly
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| Forever we stack notes like the treasury, flow heavenly
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| Get you high on speech laced with obscenity
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| Niggas be gassed like Cipher Sounds, and need rescue remedy
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| Then fall the fuck off like limbs affected with leprosy
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| One, two, three, four
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| Why the fuck can’t MC’s MC no more?
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| Hardcore til somebody put me under the ground
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| With a dick in your ear, still couldn’t fuck with my sound
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| One, two, three, four
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| Takin me straight to the weed spot, then to the liquor sto'
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| «Gimme Some Mo'» like Busta Bus', who do you trust?
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| Swingin through, your favorite neighborhood lush
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| I’m i-rate, usin your body for live bait
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| Xzibit rockin them heavy gems you can’t take
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| Dilate, cock back the weight, spread hate
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| Heavy metal we settle and set shit straight
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| Hit gates in my younger days, from the policeman
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| Me and my clan used to dance thicker than quicksand
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| Supply and demand the hand is quicker than the eye
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| Find some chickens to fry, while you find it hard to stick to your lie
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| I see through the tricks, destroy the facade
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| Your little lungs is too weak to hotbox with God
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| Rah Digga, First Lady of the Flipmode Squad
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| Gotta be hard like a young nigga walkin the yard
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| For the first time, we ain’t the niggas you let shine
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| Expect mines to blow lines like coke everytime
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| I’m an Alkaholik nigga so I finish the fifth
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| You at the front door bitchin because you ain’t on the list
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| It’s like
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| One, two, three, four.
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| Yeah (ohhhhhhh) hehehe (aight y’all, aight y’all.)
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| Yeah (here we go)
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| One, two, three, four. |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Down For The Count, artist - Reflection Eternal. Album song Train Of Thought, in the genre Поп