| It’s our time
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| Chalk it up to experience
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| I’ll rope you up
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| After the track dope you up
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| Have you fiendin' like a methadone clinic until I finish
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| Tracks I gracefully spit on, MC’s I shit on
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| Your name will mean nothin' after I start crushin' over percussion
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| Drinkin' vodka like a wild Russian
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| My name holds weight like a freight train
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| But I’m slept on like a bum in the last car, awake y’all
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| Where the screetches stop, the speakers stop cause y’all
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| The enemy on the low, but I just ain’t know
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| But right here we got the got the best spitters
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| Voice paint pictures like Michelangelo
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| On the ceiling of a cathedral
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| I’ll feed you with nothing but intelligent thug ism
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| Knowledge and wisdom, my words shine colors in the prism
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| I’m livin' spendin' they buckets, started fuckin' I’m gone
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| Knockin' my own songs, fondling on some thongs
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| Of a long legged Amazon
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| Shotgun with her skirt on
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| Suckin' an Icee
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| Thinkin' she gon' be wifey
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| I’m nice see
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| Oh you only see MTV?
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| Lot of empty MC’s, none of them see me
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| Yo Barry Bonds rap, you know how I do with mines
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| The game tried to ban me, say I’m juicing my lines
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| And usin' nine
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| Make niggas lose they mind with it
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| As soon as I click it and cock it I send a rocket
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| I lift it, I pop it, I’m sick with the topic, this kid a prophet
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| I spit it the hardest, my bitch is a goddess
|
| My shit is the hardest
|
| I’m a problem
|
| Who want it in here?
|
| I flip like David Banner changin' a spare
|
| I aim it right there
|
| And blow your face into space for real
|
| Undertaker, the space in the ground to fill
|
| I pound your grill
|
| Into mince meat I’m simply
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| The best mahfucka, hear the tec mahfucka
|
| Blaaaaa
|
| Let’s bet royalty checks, I’m comin' to collect mahfucka
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| Right in front of Jacobs to fit it, if it’s a skank I’mma get it
|
| They hatin'
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| I said, «Baby wait for a minute.»
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| I stay fly
|
| Your boy aviation lieutenant
|
| And they be patient
|
| Knowin' that it’s hard to shook me
|
| Silence struck, when they seen Sarge salute me
|
| Beats will? |
| , bacon soda rhymer
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| When I tell them that I’m takin' over, they thank a soldier
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| Ankle holster, Velcro strap where my Achilles is
|
| We’re willy’s but really it’s who spit the silliest
|
| I’m in my poetical prime, puffin' plenty purple
|
| Kill half ya cypher
|
| Leave you with a semi-circle
|
| You rap war, but can you shoot?
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| You get starved out, I carved out of bamboo shoot
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| And spit a flow blow dark at your so so art
|
| Your boy coco, you niggas never show no hearts
|
| Steppin' to Jojo
|
| I rap with the rap mortician is awful
|
| One rap blew out his latissimus dorsi
|
| So keep it poppin' while y’all niggas big gun coppin'
|
| But niggas run like they brought stockings
|
| I Bernard Hopkins
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| The jaw droppin' with no options
|
| Ayo 'Pac got shot (damn)
|
| Biggie got shot (pssst)
|
| Gravy got shot (who?)
|
| Nobody cares
|
| Sean Price, duke I’m takin' it there
|
| Matter fact, tie one hand around my back, bitch I’m makin' it fair
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| Brownsvillein'
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| Run up on a clown, the pound kill him
|
| Antibiotic rap, the track is penicillin
|
| Party people
|
| P is a poet, the poem please you
|
| Power to the people, the pistol pop paralegals
|
| Listen
|
| My aim’s the truth, I aim and shoot
|
| You found dumped in the trunk bitch, Rae Carruth
|
| Sean Price I don’t play in the booth, I go in so
|
| Never bet again me my nigga, there’s no wins
|
| Yes yes y’all and ya don’t stop
|
| S Double, Sean P will get ya shot
|
| Yes yes y’all and ya don’t quit
|
| U.G./Casual is the ultimate bitch |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Connect 4 , by - Shabaam Sahdeeq. Song from the album Relentless, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп