| Yo the rhyme excursions touch minds like brain surgeons
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| Feel the lyric teargas — even on clean versions
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| No profanit goddamnit hard like granite to the utmost
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| I’m butter on rye — always high but play the low post
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| I stretch to go the distance yo my lungs are mad elastic
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| I’m dope on plastic like Flex I always keep it classic
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| Expressions in the facial I’m on Rachel from caribbean rhythms
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| I hit 'em with a battered flow padded with circles added twice
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| I’m nice on ice the line slice your dome
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| And separate rhymes from poems
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| My life…
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| Ain’t tryin to see no grammy or oscar
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| Best believe these styles will rub off like pastas
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| On people yo check Dilated Evidence
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| The influential rock rhymes in sequential format
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| You’ll see the doormat if you acting disaccordingly
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| Something to the effect of Fatboys in Disorderlies
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| I’ll take you from He-Man to She-Ra
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| Battle Cat to Cringer
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| Medieval Messenger, west coast avenger
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| Take it to the street battle me? |
| That’s a fucking sin
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| Go one round with Mad Child you’ll be sucking wind
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| Snapping handcuffs just for de-concentration
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| Then I broke out the bus — a mental hospital patient
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| On a weekend pass but I still come sick
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| Psychopathic you’re dealing with a deranged lunatic
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| Soon to kick your teeth in, and then go berserk
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| Even Van Gogh looked at me and said you’re one piece of work
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| So I said lend me an ear, cause I’m the state of the art
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| First I’ll feast on your brain, then rip your body apart
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| There’s a part of your heart stuck in between my fangs
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| Wrap a rope around your neck, and you still couldn’t hang
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| Cause you’re way off track, you need realignment
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| Murdering masterpieces in solitary confinement
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| I’ll keep your backside open like the english channel
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| I rock the sure shot, I keep it hot like flannel
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| I’ll survey your panel with my foot up in your anal
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| You think it can’t happen? |
| Kid, cause I’m rappin'?
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| Ain’t no gun clappin' cut the jaw jackin'
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| Let the joints get shot and see where it’s not
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| Then kick off your shoes jump off my jock
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| And check the new style Whitey Ford’s prone to rock
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| Once upon a time, not long ago
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| Before Hip Hop was made for the radio
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| An MC show had to co-rock the masses
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| Used to wear a kangol with the clear gazelle glasses
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| So bang bang boogie up jump the party
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| Someone clapped off and scattered everybody
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| Drunk off bacardi, high off the trauma
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| It’s death from above the livest dive bomber
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| In the squadron I break formation
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| I get New York love like my name’s Ken Son
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| ??At tea? |
| they rock bells till they break the dawn
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| Steady puffin owl’s and fight hell like spawn
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| My moves are animated my crew’s reinstated
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| While you cats suspension’s up in my dimensions
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| We can ease tensions or we can get rowdy
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| So I’mma keep it on the love and do my duty/doody like howdy
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| Direction short term plan regionalize rhyme boards
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| With the hordes — I’m satan dynasty killer
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| Refill the chords with the sling on down
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| Venom spit regurgitate def scripts I sound
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| Cylinder never python, prevail Mad Child
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| Physical justic can’t rush this for now
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| Move fake of the game time set backs don’t sweat that
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| God don’t test that — too much infinite to get at
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| Space to fills all the members got the illa drills
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| And if you with the rhyme skill
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| Bust the revealings of my feelings of these dealings
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| Will the represent shall
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| I build three phases of death
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| The illusion is to sweat that you reflect
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| When you feel the veil
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| Divine Styles circumnavigate nine circles of hell
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| You keep on you don’t stop cause a nigga never stay stale
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| WudaWudaWudaWudaWudaWudaWhat I’m saying is is that…
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| You ain’t you ain’t ready for that shit (echoes) |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Bottle Rocket, artist - Swollen Members. Album song Balance Instrumentals, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп