| Yeah yeah
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| Mic check, one two, one two, one two
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| Yeah, turn me up a little bit Preem
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| Yeah, mic check
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| Mic check, one two, one two
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| Yeah
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| Yeah, yeah
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| Yeah yeah
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| Mic check, one two, one two, one two
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| Yeah, turn me up a little
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| Yeah, mic check
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| Word! |
| The Bar Exam, I told you how it’s goin down
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| DJ Premier ya host, Statik Selektah on the wheels of steel
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| Royce 5'9″, the artist
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| Teaching you motherfuckers how to rhyme
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| I like to say I specialize in rhyming
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| You recognized in time
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| I train till I’m in pain
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| I exercise my mind
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| I effortlessly write
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| My weapons with me tonight
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| So, please be aware of 'em
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| Walk up in the fight club with eight ounce white gloves and leave with red ones
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| Mood swing on the beat, soon as Preem prepares one
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| Pick and choose my punches
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| Walk away with minimal lumps
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| Pivoting around the vocal booth in trunks
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| Back you off me like a boxer
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| Nigga I overuse the drum
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| They call me Travis Barker with a chopper
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| Knock away your tooth
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| Do the rock-away or I will raise your roof
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| Rest in peace to Proof
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| He prolly rolling over in his grave, niggas poisoning his name
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| The misfortunes of the fortune and the fame
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| I’m too cocky to hit
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| 5'9″ and Preem, the new Rocky and Mick
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| The dollar signs go ding
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| Preem, cut me
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| Cut!
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| This is where your heart at bitch
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| Something you don’t wanna battle with
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| As if you don’t notice
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| Damn I’m great
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| I don’t like no fake niggas
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| This is where your heart at bitch
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| Something you don’t wanna battle with
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| Damn I’m great
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| They say this is a wise old profession
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| So my flow is my whole confession
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| I rhyme like applying cold compression
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| You go away like swelling
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| When pellets from the throw away is yelling
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| At you near the doorway to hell or heaven
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| Set me up, I know you’ve thought about it
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| That means I gotta wet you up
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| And I ain’t talking with no water bottle
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| Sit outside your house creeping
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| Come out and (ugh)
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| Spit out your mouth piece
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| And I’ll skid out to South Beach
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| Fuck yo' talent, I’m never going down
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| I’m a stand-up guy, yes I’m up for the challenge
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| Up cause of balance
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| From tying my shoe strings together when I was young and busting the cannon
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| Your life is spun, the fight is done
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| You’ve been iced out by the nicest one
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| And I ain’t talking about Jacob and Johnny the jeweler
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| I’m talking bout letting the fakest hear the sound of the Ruger
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| What you know about that?
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| I know all about that
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| Me and Tip feel the same
|
| Seeing tips feel the brain
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| Is like watching a movie but I ain’t make those
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| I just make the credits roll after I’m Oliver Stone
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| I’m the pedestal you stand on me I’mma flip you
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| Pitbull, put your hands on me I’mma sic you
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| It’s true you not so hard, I’m sensing you puss
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| As soon as you drop your guard, in comes the hook
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| Preem, cut me
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| Cut!
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| This is where your heart at bitch
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| Something you don’t wanna battle with
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| As if you don’t notice
|
| Damn I’m great
|
| I don’t like no fake niggas
|
| This is where your heart at bitch
|
| Something you don’t wanna battle with
|
| Damn I’m great |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Ding! (Street) , by - Royce 5'9. Song from the album Hit 'Em / Ding!, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп