Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Represent, artist - Showbiz. Album song Runaway Slave, in the genre R&BDate of issue: 31.12.1991
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: The Island Def Jam
Song language: English
Represent |
| Aww yeah, the A to the motherfuckin' G is back |
| Word to the motherfuckin' Goodfellas |
| I got two of my boys here, newest members of the D.I.T.C |
| Speak up |
| Yo this the Big motherfuckin' L from 139 and Lennox, you know what I’m sayin'? |
| Sayin' what’s up to Showbiz & A.G. 'cause they got it goin' on! |
| Yo, this the baldheaded assassin, D’Shawn E. Thunder |
| Representin' with my peoples Diggin' in the Crates |
| Peace to my brothers on 1−2-9, Uptown |
| Aww yeah, you know what I’m sayin'? |
| Look out |
| D.I.T.C. |
| in the motherfuckin' effect, lethal! |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| Yeah, Big L is the first to represent |
| Yo, on the mic is Big L, that brother who kicks flav, God |
| Known for sendin' garbage MCs to the graveyard |
| I pack a gat, not a slingshot |
| Step to this and get an ass-whoopin' like Rodney King got |
| Or get beat to your death like Cochise |
| My laws is no peace, fuck the police |
| MC’s be braggin' about cash they collect |
| But them chumps is like Ray Charles |
| 'Cause they ain’t seen no money yet |
| Trash rappers I tax and spark |
| I be wettin' niggas up like water rides in Action Park |
| A nigga stuck me and that ain’t funny son |
| So I got money Dunn, they wet him and his honey bun |
| 'Cause phony faggots I froze, it’s a fact |
| I flip fast on foes with fabulous fantastic flows |
| L is the rebel type, I’m rough as a metal pipe |
| Fuck a Benz, 'cause I could pull skins on a pedal-bike! |
| Props, I got the most, no MC comes close |
| Coast-to-coast, shows I host, foes I roast, adios, I’m ghost |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| Grab the mic D’Shawn, because you gotta represent |
| Yo, street corners in New York is the place this nigga stand |
| With a machete I’m a crazy Eddie Scissorhands |
| Born with such a thirst to kill |
| I can tap 200 quarters from a 50 dollar bill |
| Cutting bitch-niggas down with a hundred pound axe |
| Like I was raised by psycho-crazed lumberjacks |
| So in a battle I be stabbin' |
| Choppin' MC’s like trees, piece-by-piece buildin' cabins |
| I’m a maniac magician, abra cadabra |
| Makin' pain appear 'cause I’ma grab a |
| Rusty chain to make a noose; |
| to choke your ass so hard |
| You’re spittin' fuckin' Adam’s Apple juice |
| So come check the magic show by D’Shawn |
| And witness the way I put you to death with a magic wand |
| Turnin' your home to a casket |
| Turn your wife into a widow and your son into a bastard |
| 'Cause I love to keep MC’s sufferin' |
| Beggin' for big, heavy bags of Bufferin |
| Baseball battin' 'em, splattin' 'em |
| So many homicide records, my cases went platinum |
| D’Shawn is nice |
| Known for givin' out head cracks without touchin' dice |
| Just pain and punishment from the Boogie Down Bronxter |
| D’Shawn the maniac street monster |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| It’s time to get funky, so you better represent |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| C’mon Lord Finesse, 'cause you gotta represent |
| It’s the F-I-N-E-double S-E, don’t play or stress me |
| 'Cause that shit don’t impress me |
| I make papes off the shit I create, and then dictate |
| So get your motherfuckin' shit straight |
| I got skills and I’m hard to kill |
| So y’all bitch-ass rappers better chill and just guard your grill |
| Y’all grab a mic and always gettin' hype |
| Talkin' 'bout fuckin' niggas up when you can barely beat your dick right |
| So stop ridin' my dilznick |
| 'Cause I can still kick the ill shit on the motherfuckin' real tip |
| Hit like Foreman when I’m brawlin' |
| Those who think I’m fallin', I’ll play your monkey-ass like a organ |
| I got crazy niggas in the city 'noid |
| Got mad bitches, but it’s not 'cause I’m a motherfuckin' pretty-boy |
| I’m ruthless, I’m not on that goody-goody tip |
| That shit played out with that Beat Street/Electric Boogie shit |
| I’ll stomp any rapper that you have compete |
| If they ass is weak, they better chill and grab a seat |
| And go 'head with they master plan |
| Stevie Wonder probably see me before half you rappers can |
| You can’t hang and you’re fallin' fast |
| You rappers that’s trash better dash and start haulin' ass |
| 'Cause I’m out to wreck shit |
| Fuck up a show, collect my dough and step off with a bad bitch |
| Spectators always have the best time |
| When they come to a show and hear a funky Lord Finesse rhyme |
| I’m out to get bigger, lounge and make rich figures |
| You’ll never catch Finesse associating with bitch niggas |
| I work overtime when it’s time to go for mine |
| Crab-ass rappers, don’t even front 'cause y’all know the time |
| So it’s time for me to step |
| Peace to Showbiz & A.G., and I’m off to the left |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| When my crew gets sick, you know I gotta represent |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| When my crew gets sick, you know I gotta represent |
| Check-check-check it; |
| A to the G is gonna wreck it |
| On stage, on my record, so nigga don’t forget it |
| I’m the man — the One-Man-Band is on my right hand |
| («His name is Show nit-wit, so get with the program») |
| I take a hit from the buddha blessed |
| Turn my hat to the back, now let’s see who’s the best |
| I like my pockets fat, never ever flat |
| Niggas wanna jack, my .45 ain’t havin' that |
| Hoes get no dough, so why try? |
| You think it’s gonna be a hit 'n' run? |
| Wrong, it’s a drive-by |
| Niggas catchin' tantrums |
| Because your girl’s never safe around the Midnight Phantom |
| They predicted I’mma fall? |
| They must be down with Michael Jackson 'cause that shit is «Off the Wall» |
| You don’t believe me, ask that brother Show |
| (Snatchin' hotties, grabbin' hotties, lettin' mothafuckers know) |
| You come wrong if you don’t come strong |
| «You better catch wreck!» |
| Motherfucker, I made the song |
| Styles will vary, they won’t carry over |
| Don’t fuck with no Devil, I’d rather marry Oprah |
| Yeah, you got it, I’m pro-black |
| And my skills are so phat, I pay my dues, I don’t owe jack |
| You bite my style, I can spot it |
| Tryin' real hard to get it, you can forget it, because you don’t got it |
| And my skills are excellent |
| Diggin' in the Crates and it’s time to represent |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| Big L and D’Shawn, yeah they had to represent |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| Lord Finesse and A.G., yeah we had to represent |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |
| («I'm the calm one, but my crew is sorta sick») |