Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Dirty Decibels (Feat. Pharaohe Monch), artist - The High & MightyDate of issue: 23.08.1999
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Dirty Decibels (Feat. Pharaohe Monch) |
| Chorus: Pharaohe Monch |
| Microphone mutilator, ill translator |
| Dirty decible, qualified live |
| Livin, to fight another day, rhymes spray |
| Devestate your diagram in any medley |
| Verse One: Mr. Eon |
| Was gonna rip out your heart, show it to ya |
| Holmes I couldn’t find it, plus you’re mindless |
| Nicest, your reign is time on crisis |
| You trying to see me, you just might become eyeless |
| Even if you rewind this, I dumbfound the wisest |
| Scientists, slice ya spinless |
| Start to the end of us, we blend venomous |
| Tremendous nemesis to your mere presence |
| Undefeatable, inject placebos |
| Where the tree grows, is where the E goes |
| My ego’s big too, ask your amigos |
| Megaton flasher, psychadellic thrasher |
| Boom-bam-basher, transluscent |
| I see through you too, you my student |
| The protege of the soulsonic, who want it? |
| Entise, you an addict to my phonics… Pharaohe! |
| Verse Two: Mr. Eon |
| Hydrolic, your rhyme’s prehistoric |
| To the most corsic MC, flame retarted, I’ve lost it |
| Major frame damage, better get Maaco |
| Cult member, survived Heaven’s Gate and Waco, too |
| Fondu you, in your own cheese, Eon |
| Orange double-tron, complete live screen |
| Burnin up all the atlas with acid |
| Velocity even Cris Carter couldn’t catch this |
| I got your squadron, with chronic head-nodded |
| Practice calisthenics, impress regiments |
| The best medicine against any rhyme virus |
| Follow in the path of Isis and Osirus |
| Iris and retna, see through the hopeless |
| Spittin, tryin to comatose this, the dopest |
| This is evident, I shine my defness |
| Pullin guns on critics like Wyclef did |
| I have graf artists breakin |
| B-boy's dee-jay'in |
| Dee-jay's spinnin on linoleum pavements |
| Breakers writin their name in graffiti |
| Plus everyone wanna be a fresh MC |
| Verse Three: Mr. Eon |
| I wire-tap mics, plug in turntables |
| And glance is enhanced by advanced surveillance |
| Have you trailed by my associates |
| Solely the holiest, they detect you the phoniest |
| The story be untold, they broke the mold |
| And burned the ingredients that’s etched on the scroll |
| Screamin in your grill, still subliminal |
| Elegant, with the illest intent to hellband |
| Outspoken, with shit you be quotin |
| Slay aliens with this mic I be totin |
| Then rhyme over techno, the feed’s from my echo |
| Chop men’s torsos, bodily morsels |
| Stay mind-boggling, you can’t equate |
| The essence of the turntable, great is the state! |
| Your fingerpaints, and I’m classic Greek sculpture |
| This mic toucher, leave your dome ruptured |
| Chorus (last word echoes) |