Lateef The Truthspeaker

(feat. Lateef the Truthspeaker, Keke Wyatt)

[Chorus - Keke Wyatt]
Sit back, close your eyes
Peep back, got you open wide
I'll let you get a taste of me
It's going down in mystery
Sit back, close your eyes
Peep back, got you open wide
I'll let you get a taste of me
It's going down in mystery

[Gift of Gab]
Well it's the microphone ripper, party-rockin Gift of Gab
I hit the scene, lift you on my beam
And send you through my high plains
Mind-train shiftin through your migraines
Spit with that I hit with patterns get you twisted sideways

[Lateef the Truth Speaker]
And I'm the head honcho, sport golden tonsils
Inventin new styles all the time like pronto!
Four by four, runnin over suckers like a Bronco
Haters say the lyrics ain't Gonzo but they wrong though

[Gift of Gab]
We walking up and locking up the game and sparking up the flame
You're not gone' be the same when our flow reach your brain
It's 'bout to bust

[Lateef the Truth Speaker]
Not your crush, show up at our show in a tacky dress
Sparking us, talking 'bout your prowess but we're not impressed

[Gift of Gab]
Checkmate, populous crush, monstrous plush
Rhymes that just thrust onto your buck buck
Just rush

[Lateef the Truth Speaker]
Just rushin' like the Nile River, power we deliver
See it's (going down in mystery)

[Chorus x 2]

[Keke Wyatt]
You know, I know, you know, I know
(It's going down in mystery)

[Gift of Gab] (Lateef)

(Gift of Gab won't you learn 'em and assure 'em)
(That the fire that you spit'll burn 'em)
Burning up the track and turning up the action
(Murder one attack him)
Serving what you're rapping
Urban gutter anthems
(Certain of the fact)
Curtains for the wack
Searching for the knack
(You're pervin' off the fatness)
Fury of the rather early mornings after
(Worldly like disasters)
Purely just the baddest, the chief clamp down on 'em
(Like a vice on a melon squeezing tight on your temples)
Feel the bass (as the wind blows)
In your face (and your mental) hear the taste
Instrumentals even break down on you like this
(We surpass your previous standards) drastically
(Mastering bass), setting nights so bright
(Beneath the skylight)
And days (and weeks) and months (go by)
And years (and decades) and we still so fly
(While the others are just fly by night)
And not tight (we keep writing)
Like scribes (but we tight) and so wise (c'mon)

[Gab & Lateef Together]
The rhyme historian exploring everything that we got
And even more so we exploring everything that they not
These are the glory days for lyricisits, forever we plot
Wait wait wait wait hold on a second bring it back (we plot x 4,
c'mon)
The rhyme historian exploring everything that we got
And even more so we exploring everything that they not
These are the glory days of lyricisits, forever we plot
(It's going down in mystery)

[Chorus x 2]

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