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5:00 | 
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from Ghost Dog (고스트 독) by RZA [ost] (2000)
Yeah
Shake your funky ass, bitch Yaknowmean... Yo Yo we divide cakes to rise the stakes Me and my apes die for papes Bust heat and hide from jake Up in the skyscrape, on top of the world Back yourself against the wall, gun brawl Kid, I end it for all ya'll (Shake that cake bitch) Son'll stop the dough from flowin Spotless rock glowin, shots are blowin Pop the c-lock, rollin waistline and glock is showin We keep it thugged out, who not knowin get your knot blown in Yo yo Bob Digital and Kool G Rap, we set the booby trap African wiz wit the gat inside her dooby wrap Derelict rhyme crabs, you rappin for a Scooby Snack Foul-tongued bitch, you bound to lick my doody crack Verbal pellets spray, tec sound makes my amex Every slap on my snare drum son could break necks You get yanked up and spanked up, your face shanked up Who the FUCK raise your rank up? I blow your tank up, pop the lock on a cop handcuff Puff a dutch of dust, bust the jump' up and snuff out the judge Fuck a cell block, black top capsule, the mailbox It's heavy-bone birds stash glock in the nailshop One the strip, took a sip, twist the L top The God jewels son sound like a third rail shock The gold crossbone, doorag, universal flag Blast at the turbo charge and purple herbal drag Known for the W, carry a double-two in the shoe Iron snub rubber noose in the bubble goose Bullets soaked in oil, hot heat will flame broil Wu-Tang slang I bang makes your brain coil Shaolin gods we known to stack cakes Desert Queen projects son, they bake cakes Uptown Pilan dogs, you make cakes Cold Medina sons, they known to take cakes Yo, we have the Wu-Tang, we let two's bang That's how we do thangs, that's how we move thangs Shoes paid wit two in the brain Keep the ice blue in the Range Me and The RZ' quick wit two of them dames Got my dick blew in the Range My nigga keep it true to the game It ain't no tellin what I do to you lames If my mood change, choose to aim Do you and your dudes the same Go against grain and lose a fame Who claim life in the thug lane but life is real Lead come out of pipes of steel Rob, kill, or heist for mills Spill as I let out and slice your grill Nigga don't think twice to peel Just open shop and dice to grill Send the six out, bust crib route To the brickhouse, steppin on new terrain, bring the click out The streets don't wanna see you read, let a clip out These niggas slip out, make they blood drip out Yo we divide the cakes to rise the stakes Me and my apes die for papes Bust heat and hide from jake Up in the skyscrape, on top of the world Back is up against the wall, gun brawl Kid, I end it for all ya'll The flood'll stop the dough from flowin Spotless rock glowin, shots I'm blowin Pop the c-lock, rollin waistline, the glock is showin e keep it thugged out, who not knowin get your knot blown in We said Uptown Pilan dogs, you make cakes Cold Medina sons, you known to take cakes Desert Queen project wizes, they bake cakes Shaolin gods, we known to stack cakes Uptown Pilan dogs, you make cakes Cold Medina sons is known to take cakes Desert Queen project cats, they bake cakes Shaolin gods, we known to stack cakes Desert Queen project cats, they bake cakes Shaolin gods is known to stack cakes Uptown Pilan dogs, you make cakes Cold Medina son is bound to take cakes |
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2:49 |
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from Big L - The Big Picture [Explicit Version] (2000)
(L) Yeah, check this shit out
(K) Kool G. Rap and my dog Big L (K) Holdin it di-down, ya heard? (Big L) Aiyyo; I heard your single, you better make a whole new song If they said that shit is hot then they told you wrong Clown niggaz, you ain't got a chance at all Big L Corleone too advanced for y'all I make moves and boss all across the world so don't be upset if I toss your girl I got cheddar to blow, pockets never get low Bitches sweat me wherever I go I cruise in a GS Lex', Cartier specs Nautica sweats with the fresh Gortex Jewels with baguettes, swingin like the Mets Throwin the dice and takin all size bets Never bummy; sip rummy, get money When I hit honies you felt the dick in her tummy On the le-low I see dough from here to Rio Flamboyant Records, C to the E-O - what? Chorus: Kool G. Rap Yo - all of y'all weak people fall back G. Rap and Big L, we all that Goin back to back where they brawl at Swing and walk with tall bats Leavin big holes with small gats Have 'em all fallin where the wall at All of y'all weak people fall back G. Rap and Big L, we all that Goin back to back where they brawl at Swing and walk with tall bats Leavin big holes with small gats Have 'em all fallin where the wall at (Kool G. Rap) Yo, from the spot to the cellblocks Hot as hell blocks where shells pop Where they sell rock to cop the SL drop Hood bitches in nail shops; no good snitches that tell cops People find bodies in lobbies, you can smell shots Niggaz turn stale on the Rock until they bail drop New York livin, got a nigga four-fifth limpin Send you as a gift to the mortician if you forfeit livin - my fortune is forbidden I say it one time before spittin then I leave your forehead drippin I laid low then came back for more bread grippin More thread flippin More head from chickens, it's time to turn the ape loose Bust out the cage and let the gauge loose Blow the feathers out of your Nordface goose It's G. Rap comin back with a click of brave troops Have y'all niggaz runnin for homebase like Babe Ruth Have you holdin holes in your body like you play flute Lay you down til you get found up in the sprayed Coupe Prepare for the takeover - give you the face makeover the seedier row and sheet draped over Be found on the block with the street taped over or comin out of deep coma, your speech made slower Corona Queens shakedown; I'm comin with the nickel-plate pound to trade rounds with all you fake clowns get down in the unsafe town Lacin it down, black guerilla fams kid we takin the crown ya heard? Chorus 2X (Kool G. Rap) Yo Kool G. Rap, holdin it down with the hazardous Big L Knahmean? {*echoes*} |
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3:18 |
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from Dave Chappelle's Block Party (2006)
Hold your flix, I'm not for the photo op's
It's Black, code name Yaphet Kotto ock My twist like a ratchet in an auto shop Since granddaddy old Desoto stopped and he got the Caddie I been gladly servin, any y'all cats wanna act determined Spit pesticides for rats and vermin Seem like none of y'all chumps is learning Y'all hopeless, and I'm a little better than dope is Far from a brand new kid to show biz Tryna hold on, maintain my focus Coming out a room with a could of smoke Smokers rolling with the punches I survive and rock Cause I keep the crowd alive And the texture of my voice Is course and kind of hoarse and cut Like I'm throwing a thousand knives (Hook:) Party people gather round what we have here is a brand new sound Reach for my waist you hit the ground You better duck when that awful sound goes Boom Thats what's happenin in the parking lot Thats whats happenin on stage (Repeat Hook) The man at hand that rule the school And reach and teach the blind and find a way from A to Z And be the most to boast I'm load and proud The game and reign that remain The heat is on so feel the fire come off the empire or the More higher level of depth one step beyond dope To suckers all scope and hope to cop a note Cause I could never let em on top of me I play em out like a game of Monopoly Let it speed around the board like an astro And send them to jail for tryna pass go Shaking them up Breaking them up Taking no stuff But it still ain't loud enough So quest love let the fire roast So I can flow and we can kill the whole show cause (Repeat hook) I'm live Design a finer rhyme that's right on time One step beynd and not behind the line That seperates thought from divine You can take it as a caution or a warning sign Look for antonyms Words I'm sending em Homonyms, synonyms good like M&M's You know the time when it's Riq Gees slicing I turn a Mic's last name into Tyson My brain like a factory constantly creating Materials stitch by stitch for decoration My lyrics one fabric the beat is a lining My passion of rhyming is fashion designing Now it get sorted cause people wanna sport it ya bought it If you didn't then you couldn't afford it Poetry full of surprises it's like a game show And my brain go I do my thing yo (Repeat Hook) |
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5:04 |
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from U.N.K.L.E. - Psyence Fiction (1999)
Styles like Al Pacino
Reno until the carcelino The mad dino with the cambino, the gambino Digger than Jim COlisemo More reservoir dogs than Tarantino Scales for Venezuela, Brown as Ni O Making the block hotter than Jalepe OS G. Luciano Be wettin' shit like piesce in "Casino" Fifty dollar cigar seer The cosnia, the mafia Don P. like Garcia Drug Czar and the baby-Pah beater The M-8 behind the bar-freer The poughkenoughs, the panama skier Down with the parmesan Ready to comb like Vietnam with arms 'Cause the hollow-points and phenomenon The cheddar-spreader The killer with the gold Carretta N-Leader The sweater-letter with the hollow letter Drama-setter The patmeretta gettin' redder kids and mamma Shredder Infra-red clow off the armour better The godfather, the problem solver Coming through with the 6 shell revolver Hot as lava Guns skills that reel and in the 'ville I be the barber Gangster saga, the motha-fuckin' face carver Drums of death hold your breath Give you a dose of shit that's dope as soda The underworld family cosa-nostra Pearl-handle inside the shoulder-holster G. Luciano with a click but nothin' but N-S & Chicanos You get hit up like Castrelano italiano like crime familia N- don't get familiar Me and my goons might have to kill you Up in New York We play bloodsports at home court And hold down forts Soon as ya caught, get your dome torched G Rap and Dj Shadow leave your bone squashed Squeeze the chrome short, take no shorts We judge and jury in the home court Give you the clown corpse dead on the sidewalk Surrounded by mad pedefors Your whole frame laid in the white chalk You got the smoking section First-class tickets to resurrection Forever destined to a place where N-S never rest in Headed in hell's direction Lost at the crossroads and intersection Should've wore a vest for chest protection Slug fill you to capacity, someone at the dance Someone with the hand velocity of Butch Cassidy Bitch N- with the audacity to blaspheme me Got yourself caught in a motha-fuckin' tragedy Drums of death |
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