Disc 1 | ||||||
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
1. |
| - | ||||
2. |
| - | ||||
3. |
| - | ||||
4. |
| - | ||||
5. |
| - | ||||
I created verb noun ??? (The most beautifullest shit) I make up like foundation now who you facing? The waterproof emcee Ras blessed the mic faster than Ramadan in mach 3 Get off my dick nigga And tell your bitch to come here And stick your dick in your eardrum and fuck what you heard (Yeah) Fa sheezy articulate drama Multiple lacerations between consecutive commas I like my ill nana wet, my martini dry Whippin' a BMW 540-I (drunk driving Miss Daisy) Devil in a blue dress packing heat While I'm doing doughnuts in the middle of the street My middle east metaphors motivate religious wars Jah-hah (plus some other middle east dialect) Get it popping like Felicia and Amhad Rashad Keep my game face on like a Goat So stick yourself, Pretty Tony Chorus: You, you are, you conceited bastard (8x) Verse 2: (We still got some non-believers) So I'ma drop the bomb Like the one-armed wide reciever See we be off the hook like (busy signal from phone) Criminally insana, my brain do the Macarena Attack the varicose vanity who spin cancer Rhetorical question, a hypothetical answer Wouldn't swallow my tongue at a seizure Speak my mind at my leisure Living singe with more hoes than Khadijah And when I'm bent, it's the circus without a tent Clowning all baby-face ass niggas who love hoes and pay rent Give a chicken six cents for Gucci boots (Hell no!) I rather mop the floor at a peep show What part of "I'm the shit?" don't you understand? (Gooby bitch) Your favorite rapper is a Ras Kass fan So, how many dykes do I flip on the daily? Many money, just give me plenty Henny Remmy Chorus: 8x again Verse 3: (Well, that's true) Damn, skippy I put that on everything I love Like when Lucy was fucking Ricky Got more stripes than Adidas I'm cavy like fish fetus See money snit and bullshit out-run cheetahs Too much perputrating, not enough lyricism Indo got you believing what your pen do Faking pugilism, the evil you claim you and your man do With a gloc, when you least likely to red dot a 7-up can My man, understand, I got connections So much doe in my pocket, I give my girl a yeast infection I'm big-headed like babies with down syndrome Is you a playa from the Himalyas with Jerome-rome This one girl tried to Billy Jean me But I was wearing two rubbers So name that nigga, Whodini (laughing) Controversal reversal, this is my planet You just a Reebok commercial Chorus What, nigga, check, check, yeah Uh, huh, yeah, yeah This goes out to all the critics You can suck the didick Check this out for all the bitches to the radio Don't hate me though, you don't know me |
||||||
6. |
| - | ||||
7. |
| - | ||||
8. |
| - | ||||
9. |
| - | ||||
10. |
| - | ||||
11. |
| - | ||||
12. |
| - | ||||
Everything I say don't be yae yo Haters in batter rams, I slam Like syringes in heroine, four hundred and fifty grams Overdose, every coast, one hundred spokes chrome Knock off some malt liquor by the malzatof Don't gotta floss, huh, ain't that the truth Flyin in boobies, silver six hundred Coup Like whoop whoop, holla at me big baby Sop me up wit a biscuit, cuz you know it's all gravy Linquistical flow, I ain't Mystikal, but y'all ain't ready If a nigga don't rhyme about crack, clothes, pussy and fatty Eat a dick, that's music to my balls, like Gloria Estefan fuckin Hakeem Olajuwon How this black lil nigga get more head than a beauty salon Guam, blowin ya shit out like Chaka Khan For sheezy, my favorite women is sleazy Bisexual triplet freaks, forty five at they sexual peaks I'm fuckin three Tony's, like Rafael Saadiq And got a trick up my life, manufacturin cheese My matrix will triculate wit melodies Rehabilitated hood rats, shake the specie I'm tryin to die filthy, rich and ruthless, I'm easy See Austin niggas is know for flossin But I still buy my T-shirts and socks from the slossin [Chorus: Ras Kass |
||||||
13. |
| - | ||||
14. |
| - | ||||
15. |
| - | ||||
16. |
| - | ||||
(I reign) I reign more cop than Johnny Sippin' tanquery with o.j. Sportin' bruno mali Not guilty but filthy Smellin' like Chritstian Dior Infiniti QX4 gimme yours Of course sinnin Swimmin' in the abdomen of pretty women Love to love ya like Timbaland When in the endin Like three strikes in the ninth inning I rock satin boxers cotton socks and denim The game he kick, special teams couldn't return Got you wild like a texturizer Burn like the ultra-perm, toss it up like a geyser Sosa, kosher, nostra, like keyser And got a thing for rehabilitating hood-rats Who keep their hair and nails done And they legs waxed I peep that, you got a man, but you want a homie Love a friend, my sentiments exactly Get at me chorus [Karida Johnson] I like your style, can we kick it, oh wow Baby, so you can get at me [Ras Kass] I got no game, It's just the women Understand my story I got a man, but we can still be friends So you can get at me, baby, baby-bay, baby Verse Two Some things make you happy just to be alive Like seeing Toni Braxton naked on the cover of the vibe Drive, like hitting two-twenty-five In the pin with no spot I survive drama and then know when to lick shots Keep a top notch just a phone call away from my crotch Never brought sand to the beach Cause these streets is baywatch (true) You know how we do Satin lingerie I see through Now she barely even kiss you Leaving 1-7-7-1-5-4-0-0 on my pager (I miss you boo) Your chicken-head wife was poultry Undersexed and sultry That's the rhyme and reason why we committed adultery I swear, womens love from bel-air to welfare Chalkin' up these frequent flyer miles on Con-Air Her momma shoulda named her Casino She got the liquor in the front Poke her in the rear chorus Verse Three You know my steez though Dark skin and creole, I'm 'bout it Just without the Master P dough But see though, my tax bracket decent and increasin Make no mistake You cant get a slice if you don't bake the cake To reverse trick My silly ex-bitch transport brick For twenty percent - commission She dressed up with no where to go While I'm blowin up your dress like Marilyn Monroe For show, at my girl party, flowin But I think she caught me like a nazi Now I'm servin', she got me under surveilence Like John Gotti, now I'm signin' on the low Actin' straight Illuminati Don't get mad, I'm only being honest It's Clarence Thomas (fuck you Ras) You promise Then freak me, slightly below the hips And blow me a kiss with your pussy lips Get at me chorus Get at me |
||||||
17. |
| - | ||||