Lyrics Punchlines - The J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League, Lupe Fiasco, Math Hoffa

Punchlines

Yeah yeah
LOOPS, MATH HOFFA, SOUL KHAN
JUSTICE, LUX
Beloved!
My life’s a knockout
I’mma punch in 'til I clock out
I stuck with it like the plastic on my mom’s couch
Eff with it if you rappers know what i’m 'bout
(All I got to show for) All these people I drive out
Wind up, or spring-door-drawer rappers I springboard
World-at-your-fingertips shit 'til I cut the ring off, champ!
(mean)
All my lyrics poignant, disappointment (mean)
When all of these niggas pointing could get appointments
Sense of a nigga asking for 40!
But it ain’t like any of you niggas could rap it for me (facts)
Facts of the story, I’m going out so glorious
Notorious, all warriors know orators
Spit it for young critics, sketching from my reflection
My manual’s a solar panel, wait 'til my son get it
My energy take the imagery, main industry
I think Math thought we were stealing the game literally!
I physically spoke to him before that round
You know, when we try to build
Don’t let the Joneses get you down
(MATH HOFFA!) Lupe sent ya mans a track
All I needed was a chance to rap
I made bands with Smack
Wham bam, now I’m banned from SMACK
What Imma do next?
The answer’s crack!
(Hol' up!)
Do next, the answer’s crack!
Heads turn a little harder when you stand for facts
Niggas lying so bad, hope you cramp your back
From the hood, where we can’t relax, seen your man relapse
These punchlines I can’t retract
I put the lean on the pimp, see 'em dancers slacks (my bad!)
That’s wack
Now my knuckles gotta bump 'em with the boom-boom
Me countdown, me come from Brooklyn!
I just came to represent weed
Get my mama out the P’s, and niggas hating
You see the dedication, seeming like they seek my resignation
'Cause the streets need a cleaner reputation!
I see you niggas faking, I’m Moses: I need a separation
In the end, I just keep my reservation 'fore I be a mental patient
Why they trying to hate on your bro?!
I need a beat like a creep date-raping a hoe
Glory-hole-ass rappers still waiting to blow
I bring them bars back like you violated parole!
(Whoa!)
Blame it on them rough blocks
Razor blades trying to put me in a lunch box
I got a heater turn Peter: nigga, guns pop!
Why step to me?
You might as well cumshot!
My destiny is on top, I don’t got no time to fail
Devil want my soul, no kind of sale
Can’t pimp a Mac, go find a Dell
It’s all over: showtime, Adele!
Now I ain’t got a catchy song to make y’all love me
My lines fish-hook you 'til your face all bloody
Son, you’re fornicating with a force of nature, formulated
When the dude would sport a pager, and Taye rocked Rugbys
It’s Hugo Boss, screw your squad
I push them to the sky rim with a fus-roh-dah
And he got hella style to bring 'em in like Ellis Island
Fuck asking «Who's your daddy?»!
SON, WHO’S YOUR GOD?!
I ain’t here to fill a quota
I’m here to spill a soda in the memory of every rapper
They should’ve told ya I am not a human
That’s an illusion, I am the End of Days
See you let this plague on the wings of the Enola
Well, I know you wanna hear some punchlines, Lu!
But nowadays, it’s kind of hard to be a punchline dude
I mean my double-a time just could be tougher to contra
The truth could hit him harder than them punchlines do
Who got a vendetta?
YOU?!
Better get a deathbed or two
If I get it crackin', you better expect tentacles
Homie, I can multiply, you could have sent ten of you
I will outlast you, past my centennial
Talk about New York, but still we’re the Mecca
And you don’t know the time like you still wearing Mecca
My righteous words reach you through these Heisenberg features
So, I know I’m going to blow up like the wheelchair of Hector
Shorty screaming like she in the hentai biz
What the fuck?!
Did y’all forget who the heck I is?!
I will burn your house down like it’s Left Eye’s crib
And then move your family up to where Left Eye lives!
Respect on the rise, but the money stay still
I’m 28, sitting on 28 bills
Son, I can’t chill if my cupboard ain’t filled
Man, I wonder when they’re gonna make the Hunger Games real!
(We need more shit like this man)
Uh yea, 30 bars to go
And whats a cool heart to 30 carts of coal
And whats a cool car when air part is poor
And the poor part means air part is cold
And the cold part is air parts a stove
So everything of them is oven
Also something to understand, what I say is ice trays
And Muffin pans also everything other than’s
Well let’s call it baked Alaska
Sriracha on the rocks a frozen yogurt on the woks, stop
Even rejection is perfection when i’m thru with rhymes
They cut the floors out my cutting room
Just to make them out the doors of the Guggenheim
Raps catholic church
Discarded bars would kill just to get back in my verse
Now what you just observed is you listening to some shit
That you’ve never heard and just to make it cray
I was talking about some shit that I would never say
In a playing song by the song that i’d never play
Yeah, even my wrong turns is a better way
Long term, I just come around the corner like the letter J
So I’m on the right track even when I’m led astray
Like misdirected lead let out of the letter K
Slang for chopper, not slang for throw it
If i had a knife you wouldn’t even know it
You knockers on flows for those just to bring it back (???)
You know how to say silent K’s and reattach chakras
Oh that’s a lot to say you never seen him before
Hanging in the hood just like three in a row
Snakes after I just like a G and a Joe
Check out my new chain, I hang a tree from my throat
Hanging a T from a rope, take it from me, I’m a bit crazy
Or you could hear it from the hoes like Dick Tracy
LU