Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Top Dog, artist - Viro the Virus. Date of issue: 31.12.2004
Song language: English
Top Dog |
| Jersey’s Finest… |
| It’s going down… |
| Back in effect |
| Alright okay, check it out |
| Yeah, yeah, yeah |
| Stampeding like a psycho Rhino |
| It’s the wino named Viro and I know |
| You can’t see my flow with either of your eyeholes |
| Try and get played like Tyco |
| I snipe foes nocturnal with night glows |
| And ride out back to the hideout to light dro |
| Too much to deal with with ill shit steal your meal ticket real quick |
| Then flip the kill switch |
| A bio-hazard rhyming bastard |
| Grab the mic and lightning flashes, then rappers turn to piles of ashes |
| Multi-syllabic with cult-like status |
| Cold Colt 45 and a ho tied in my attic |
| Pour some out on the floor for Rick James |
| Think of Dirt McGirt and do the same thing again |
| From the womb to the tomb, my momentum gains |
| And music flows through it like it’s dope in your veins |
| Yeah, V shot calls like top dog |
| An advocate to sex, drugs, and hip hop, off the wall |
| Sick dope, dope sick |
| Yeah, to all of you and y’all and all of them listen |
| V shot calls like top dog |
| An advocate to sex, drugs, and hip hop, off the wall |
| Sick dope, dope sick |
| Yeah, listen at full attention, you don’t wanna miss him |
| Yo, you can never bend me like a jheri curl |
| Even when I’m 'bout to hurl off a St. Pauli Girl |
| With no money for bubbly |
| I still get balls-deep in barkeeps from Coyote Ugly |
| Got a PhD in advanced flow studies |
| That keep it bouncing like Man Show Juggies |
| Tighter than bosom buddies, good, bad and hungry |
| And got mad hoodrats that love me (Why?) |
| Cause I’m fluid and I’m well-hung |
| Do it till it’s well done to leave losers with their bells rung |
| Bring the beef like meatloaf |
| Every MC’s nightmare but fans say he’s such a dreamboat |
| From a cloud of weed smoke I emerge |
| With obscene quotes and rhymes with fighting words |
| Out for glory and whores with nice curves |
| And I can end your story at the tip of the iceberg |
| I’m either too trashed to dance licking acid stamps |
| In the classic max stance with a trashy tramp |
| Or inhaling spliffs in Motel 6 |
| With underage runaways taking black tail flicks |
| Or drinking gin with a harlot |
| Stepping on peasants for pestering me to touch the hem of my garment |
| Or in the stu taking bong hits |
| Morphing my morbid portraits to song to put em on disc |
| Either way I’m not the kid to play |
| My display peels your mask away then leave your masquerade in disarray |
| Hung with fellas who had the map for Zelda |
| Now I hang with cats with blunt wraps and paraphernalia |
| Fulltime failures plotting on part-time bank tellers |
| To get dough for a crib with a wine cellar |
| Boy I tell you they don’t write em like they used to |
| So I hit the stu and cooked this up like couscous, here |