Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Stop Hitting Yourself , by - Soul Khan. Release date: 19.09.2016
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Stop Hitting Yourself |
| Soul Khan |
| Illingsworth on the beat |
| And the raps with Virtue and Dom O Briggs |
| On everything |
| This motherfucker bangs |
| Let’s get this one pregnant |
| Fresh out of carbonite stasis |
| Dangerous, so entirely flames |
| The inside of my veins |
| Have got caramelized platelets |
| Now all of my haters join the party like Magus |
| The bona fide greatest |
| Came with some humble advice |
| Seen a lot of White Rangers |
| Changing your colors and stripes |
| For the sake of a couple of likes |
| 'Cause you wanna die famous |
| You’re still lukewarm as a review for a food court |
| The hoops that you’re jumping through for success |
| Are making me facepalm |
| I’m basically napalm |
| What I do’s more essential than room, board, and sex |
| So Hugh-Laurie-esque, your mother’s sending nudes |
| At school board events, I’m such a clever dude |
| Like Duncan Penderhughes in huge Warby specs |
| I’m cold, you just Cole trying to hustle rent-em-spoons |
| Look at me mixing these metaphors and similes up |
| And I don’t give an amphibious fuck |
| Circling for crumbs, man that shit is for ducks |
| You couldn’t test me if I pissed in a cup |
| Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? |
| Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop |
| Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? |
| Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop |
| Now I’m Sherlock Holmes slash Yung Lean out of Stockholm |
| And mixed with a black part |
| Mixed with a Marvel vs. Capcom team of Cable, Sentinel, Blackheart |
| While you button mash I’m clowning soon as the match start |
| You speedwalking, I’m cartwheeling |
| You sketching amateur caricatures |
| I’m art dealing in suits made of the rarest most expensive starched linens |
| My guard listens so much |
| I wouldn’t even |
| You still in charred denims |
| It’s faux pricey rap, promethazine, Dimetapp |
| Instagram, tiny cats,, tiny hats |
| Achieving more than superhumans can with brutish hands |
| Standing out like fully-suited man on |
| Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? |
| Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop |
| Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? |
| Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop |
| Ready to spark on these tracks |
| Kinda have that effect |
| I’m kinda pompous on my balls |
| Homie now give me respect |
| I’m super chill though, don’t ask me why my eyes low |
| That means he got’em |
| See, when I rap, I train apostles |
| They say eating pussy makes your beard grow |
| But I’ve been eating cats for years with my lo mein and my street flow |
| Heh, and I still ain’t got a beard yet |
| I’ve always been the youngest child rebel, soldier, a little threat |
| How’d your beats your rhymes, fuck your crew |
| If you moves on up on my homies they be |
| You can’t spar with the Brooklyn god |
| My arms are ordained with scriptures, I’m mistletoe-fisted |
| Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? |
| Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop |
| Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself? |
| Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop |
| Who the F is F Virtue? |
| No one, 'cause no one’s perfect |
| Went from the cervix to the surface to Earth |
| Prematurely stirring genetics and scopes |
| Getting a leg up before legs could balance on ropes |
| A mongoloid thinking the bong’s a toy |
| Making retarded raps, how much fam have my songs employed? |
| Diddy’s kids Sean John |
| And anyone who started from the bottom’s long gone |
| I wouldn’t diss dudes on my own tracks like K-Dog |
| I only work with MCs I love, and I hate lots |
| So guest features are with those I’d have as dinner guests |
| Now let’s get jealous and mad at what the winner gets |