Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Posse Slash, artist - Vast Aire.
Date of issue: 31.12.2003
Song language: English
Posse Slash |
We slide out, it’s like Crunch, Captain |
Not the cereal but suited like generals (Let's go) |
Gripping the mic and moving any rooms |
See Mighty Jo swing, smack from the bush |
Grimy flow kings rap out the wood |
Work when a boy twerk lines this good (Uh huh) |
Who say we hiding in the hood, playing Holly games? |
We drop hits here at the party, mayne |
Listen, woman or child, the hood’s in the house |
Now start looking around for me, Brooklyn-bound (Look) |
Queens all-city, the kid putting it down (Look) |
Probably in another town, unhooking her blouse |
She waving in the air, saying, «Looky, meow» |
Posse cut bodied her. |
You better watch it, son |
Yo, I ain’t trying to battle no more. |
That shit is getting boring |
The comp sucks. |
My new hot stuff should get to touring (Hit the road) |
Words are like weapons soaring, leaving sets unplugged |
Disrespecting, it gets to you like Lauren |
Shit’s hard. |
Smoke grass to let it off |
Me and Vast need cash, so we smash like ghetto raw |
Straight beating the fuck out this verbal session, stressing this bitch |
‘Til she’s screaming like. |
With herbal essence, I |
Spit a TEC at the mainstream, aiming at |
Fake niggas who gang clean, ain’t seen jack |
Hip hop is much bigger than rap. |
You going for mines? |
Get off the crack. |
Bet on your ride? |
I break your prize, leave you walking back |
For the green, I’m a scene from the Hulk attack |
I’m a vet. |
You pose no threat. |
You pussy |
On the set like commercials with talking cats |
My jersey been in the rafters. |
Peep this towel-mouth |
Brooklyn monster. |
Knuckle up, speedbag your tonsils |
Poison Pen’s name’s hitting in the street |
All I do is threaten dudes to the rhythm of the beat |
Branch Davidians trail me. |
Got a cult following |
Tungsten for tonsils, low blows spit halogen |
Thought your block was wild? |
Watch out. |
It’s really off |
Politicians pop off, turn the city hall to a city morgue (We want it all) |
If there’s a brawl, really, dog, it’s prolly us |
Tour bus boys ain’t stalled working on a posse cut |
Ayyo, lips on your face don’t work. |
Just like I’m |
On the desert, baby. |
The same as gamma-ray-strong birth |
Bitch! |
«Rap representing» — Sample from |
Y’all know the name: |
Aesop fucking Rock. |
Ain’t a damn thing changed |
Clubbed up in a property in helicopter hell |
When all he wanted was to drink copper, crawl out of well |
Jumping Jiminy in a gimme-gimme industry |
New York bleed bricks, piss huts, and shit liberty |
Briefing lizards, he sleeps the winters away |
Weight flips snarky out in demos. |
Let him keep the scissors |
And all that good-good. |
Smoked out and mobile |
When his tummy growls in vowels, shit almost looks remotely simple (Oh) |
Slumped on every portly mobile. |
Porky ogre ace ignored |
A forty focal. |
Folk adored a forgey quirksy motor |
Fuck what I’m gon' be. |
This luck of the ugly |
And I’m half-man, wormy, flunked, fucked. |
What? |
Dirty |
From the dump, suck dump truck. |
Let the peril fester |
Right? |
Curb your little ninjas and we’ll all break bread together |
I know niggas in the street who delete oxygen |
If you ain’t really ‘bout it, don’t box him in (Don't do that) |
There’s no water but you gonna go swimming |
We don’t like y’all. |
We like women (I like girls) |
You lie sweet but the truth’s like lemon |
If you touch her right, she’ll start grinning (She'll start grinning) |
I got something if you want to touch hands |
Sucker emcees better change they plans |
Pass the baton. |
I’ll end the dash (End the dash) |
That ain’t all the herb. |
It’s only the stash |
And this ain’t a posse cut. |
It’s more of a slash |
Part of the hurricane—only the splash |
Styles upon styles upon styles is what I have |
You trying to grab the Aire? |
You don’t know the half |
Hah. |
You better off up north |
And when you thinking we got you, the lights go off |