Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Nowhere To Hide At (Feat. Copywrite) , by - The High & MightyRelease date: 06.10.2002
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Nowhere To Hide At (Feat. Copywrite) |
| Murderous on mics, and my alibis a comedy |
| The evidence has got to be printed on the quantigy |
| The Cannibus Cup poll panelists, award analysts |
| We don’t build this shit, we dismantle it |
| Turnin' icy rocks to little rubber piles |
| White hop meltin' up space shuttle tiles |
| Bring that crap to your lap with desktop |
| Or end up like George Pop at the rest stop |
| Spit 'til your chest pop, still can’t get a guest stop |
| Only way you pushin' whips is workin' at a sex shop |
| The hot hole theif, with a Glock so creep |
| You might as well be Amish, you ain’t got no heat |
| Plus y’all ain’t shit, never was shit, never will be |
| If you pull out a nine, barretta, milli, you better kill me |
| A canibal, beat my dates, then I beat the case |
| Fuck the pssy your Honor, I just want to eat the face |
| You know where to hide at |
| We know where you ride at |
| Smoke too much dro, can’t deny that |
| Gotta bounce to the rest to like that |
| Eon and Copywrite bitch |
| You best rewind that |
| I’ll shoot a pop star if you don’t gimme everything out the wallet |
| Drop bars like a recovering alcoholic |
| Got cowards bitchin', burried in crack is how I’m shittin' |
| Flippin' the clip and spittin' until I’m outta writtens |
| You want some? |
| Son I blaze through mics |
| Y’all don’t know my name |
| Your mom’s dumb and the bitch ain’t raised you right |
| Got flows to make you know what fear God |
| You’re tryin' real hard to blow |
| Instead you’re blowin' real hard |
| You know when I feel odd, and I catch a chill too |
| You really ain’t shit 'til Suge Knight wanna kill you |
| Spit shit nicer than my enemy’s style |
| Go black, still get booed like Destiny’s Child |
| At first union, it’s the worst human |
| I’m much tuned out to rather be tuned in |
| I just laugh when they throw their heat |
| Cause their shit sound like an old two-way beat |
| Eon been rhymin' since the move Bombin' |
| Cause me and mic booths got too much in common |
| Both transmit amp shit |
| Even if you put me on the same mic you amped the band with |
| I turn your dome peice to Sausage McMuffin |
| Apply candy yams and a Stove Top Stuffin' |
| Cause E.C. came straight from B. Street |
| I’m high, but I’m risin' much more than three feet |
| I barely spoke and got 'em open wide |
| So when I make noise, make room |
| All jokes aside |
| Watch your kids, this cat is thirsty |
| I expose you raw seeds like a bag of dirt weed |
| Lord forgive me for what I’m admittin' to |
| In the confession booth, repentin' for sins I didn’t do |
| Read the bible drunk with my tongue inside a nun |
| Use my dick for a Rolex, my time has come |