Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Connect 4, artist - Shabaam Sahdeeq. Date of issue: 11.02.2008
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Connect 4 |
| It’s our time |
| Chalk it up to experience |
| I’ll rope you up |
| After the track dope you up |
| Have you fiendin' like a methadone clinic until I finish |
| Tracks I gracefully spit on, MC’s I shit on |
| Your name will mean nothin' after I start crushin' over percussion |
| Drinkin' vodka like a wild Russian |
| My name holds weight like a freight train |
| But I’m slept on like a bum in the last car, awake y’all |
| Where the screetches stop, the speakers stop cause y’all |
| The enemy on the low, but I just ain’t know |
| But right here we got the got the best spitters |
| Voice paint pictures like Michelangelo |
| On the ceiling of a cathedral |
| I’ll feed you with nothing but intelligent thug ism |
| Knowledge and wisdom, my words shine colors in the prism |
| I’m livin' spendin' they buckets, started fuckin' I’m gone |
| Knockin' my own songs, fondling on some thongs |
| Of a long legged Amazon |
| Shotgun with her skirt on |
| Suckin' an Icee |
| Thinkin' she gon' be wifey |
| I’m nice see |
| Oh you only see MTV? |
| Lot of empty MC’s, none of them see me |
| Yo Barry Bonds rap, you know how I do with mines |
| The game tried to ban me, say I’m juicing my lines |
| And usin' nine |
| Make niggas lose they mind with it |
| As soon as I click it and cock it I send a rocket |
| I lift it, I pop it, I’m sick with the topic, this kid a prophet |
| 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 |
| The best mahfucka, hear the tec mahfucka |
| Blaaaaa |
| Let’s bet royalty checks, I’m comin' to collect mahfucka |
| Right in front of Jacobs to fit it, if it’s a skank I’mma get it |
| They hatin' |
| I said, «Baby wait for a minute.» |
| 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 |
| When I tell them that I’m takin' over, they thank a soldier |
| 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? |
| You get starved out, I carved out of bamboo shoot |
| 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 |
| 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 |
| Brownsvillein' |
| 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 |