Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song The Club, artist - Tony Touch. Album song The Piece Maker, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 17.04.2000
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Tommy Boy
Song language: English
The Club |
| The whole city’s under siege when we come through wit guns blazin |
| You need to take a seat son, you just started shavin |
| Respect ya elders, stay in a child’s play |
| The monotone flow stayin even wit the bass |
| Oh good Lord, we throw it like a javelin toss |
| Arrogance is the feature that we added for floss |
| Come and get headline, destined to get riches |
| From either rappin our ass off or brick shipments |
| Cover all regions, makin sure the product gets spread out |
| We talk behind the mac you bust lead out |
| Wit next prospect, no particular concept do we follow |
| Smooth but yet solid like marble |
| Niggas ain’t fuckin wit D, fuckin wit me |
| Lookin at me like «Yo, what can it be?» |
| In the wide body-7 while you suckin the D |
| Spent out in the wedge while I’m fuckin for free |
| Scared to death like you stuck in a tree |
| I’mma stretch your ass out like I’m cuttin the deed |
| Frontin like a big man but you stuck in a three |
| So you know your floss game ain’t nuttin to me |
| When the sun hits the cross, yo it’s something to see |
| R-B, Kid Capri niggas runnin wit me |
| Twenty karats on the wrist ain’t nuttin to me |
| Do you no good frontin to me, nigga |
| Aiyyo Tone, let’s Touch these niggas wit the wand |
| Then blow up like a bomb |
| Made moves faster than the Autobahn |
| The Kid Capri is a institution, and all ya’ll niggas is pollution |
| Starin up a whole lot of confusion |
| It’s simple, let’s move out all these corn cats |
| And disc jock dissin MC’s that got the borin raps |
| Fuck what ya got, grimy niggas don’t wanna hear it |
| Niggas take it, soon as they near it, you better fear it |
| Bronx Bomber, the pretty-fly girl charmer |
| The black Italian, the cash keep pilin as I’m smilin |
| So hear me now, I bring the thunder plus the rumble |
| And I’ll step back and watch your whole career just crumble |
| Well it’s the cheeba steamer, brains on trains, won’t eat her neither |
| Benz to the plane, off the plane to the Beemer |
| Insane and off the meter, in the rain I’ll heat up |
| And ya’ll can’t stop my sunshine, fuck one-time |
| Got heavy wit gats to push your face back |
| Trash-ass album sound like you played it on eight-track |
| Rip you from the roots and under |
| Triple gooses in the summer |
| Mean long guns is producin the thunder |
| Convertible Hummers, we shit on the Glock |
| Try to put the roof up, I’ll tell Show to piss on the top |
| Wrist on the watch, roll wit a click or a Glock |
| Plan on gettin a lot, from spittin or not |
| Cool wit niggas that be flippin a lot |
| Probably got shit on your block |
| And if you hate, I’ll take it back to '88 (Nigga, get off the top) |
| It’s two-g's, let’s get this money, you wit it or not |
| But I’ll switch topics like my bitch wit thongs in the tropics |
| Make hits, straight hits |
| Perform as long as I got it |
| Seven-digits wit my name on the dotted |
| Remain Dirty and potted, ya’ll know me for the ruckus |
| G.D. I only can fuck wit |
| Get the dutch and tell Tony to Touch it |
| Guns, I tote them things |
| Blunts, I smoke them things |
| Rhymes, I wrote them things |
| It’s no such thing, as hoes fron-ting |
| We run train, I do my thug thing |
| Grab the mic and leave a mud stain |
| So get Tide wit bleach when I rhyme wit beats |
| Niggas do crimes to eat |
| No pork, I don’t talk, the nines just speak |
| I’m the kind to creep on your block wit the heat cocked |
| Got the street locked, smackin niggas out they Reeboks |
| It’s Party Artie, I get dirty wit the Ewoks |
| The infrared hit you in the head from three blocks |
| Away, Been There Done That like Dr. Dre |
| It Ain’t My Fault like Silkk the Shocker say |
| Ya’ll niggas gots to pay, shots’ll spray |
| From the Bronx to Far Rockaway |
| My whole team, strapped like Bokeem |
| Fuck bein in jail, trapped wit no cream |
| I be the don that’s known to have the style sewn |
| More cheese than calzones, give chicks the dialtone |
| Build like brownstones when we slaughter your plan |
| Touch albums, so hot comes wit a portable fan |
| Type to starve the mic when I hog the light |
| Lay my life on the line if the odds is right |
| Gettin the, spot and gleam while you plot and scheme |
| To stop the team, three words nigga: watch and dream |
| You just mad hater, cuz we movin wit dough |
| You don’t make sense like wearin suede shoes in the snow |
| Finesse frontin? |
| Y’all know me, I don’t stress nuttin |
| Bought your album, that’s how I broke the eject button |
| Don’t stress dudes, we just plot our next move |
| Make niggas look stupid like joggin pants wit dress shoes |
| The prophet, shit john blaze like the tropics |
| Type of nigga need a? |
| just for my pockets |
| Don’t flex punks, we sex stunts, collect lumps |
| You flossin now, you be pardon by next month |
| Type of thug, yo I was born to bug |
| Waitin for us to fall, nigga join the club, what |