"Yeah, here we go...just go with the flow"
"Yeah, here we go...just go with the flow"
Yo, I'd like to check this microphone before I start right quick
Microphone check 2,2,1,2,1,2
[Verse 1]
Big up all the Monsta' Island massive
And beware before I triple dare you like the last kid
He ask me what we don't got that you got son
For one, flow that's elementary my dear Wat-son
Secondly, ever since I was little
Not so much to riddle, least rhyme to the syllable
Keep tracks that make a Arab thief clap
With no hands, I chop these drums off
Truly yours, G Rap
Actual fact, relax
In this land of lyrical loss, black
I'm not the cool sleet stack
The one who might stop and talk to you
Poison to you, niggas who be bitin' styles I'm like pork too
Oooh...what you got to lose? Let mud fly
When I got blues I chew whole crews that's bud dry
So I ask why the style's from the cess
Shit be fuckin with my eye as I pull it to the chest
The super muthafuckin' villain grip the mic wit an iron hand
Throwin MCs to the fire from out da fryin' pan
It ain't no use in tryin, man
Son, stop cryin
Frontin' like you death-defyin'
You need to stop lyin'
Speak your piece only once you're spoken to first
Now lemme hear your verse while I'm chokin' you
With bubbly fine rhymes like a editor
Throw them to my collection of skulls and spines like Predator
Fuck around, the only niggas who could hear the same sound (Who?)
Was Jet Jaguar and James Brown
(Word, only them two niggas?)
And I'm glad I took the time to write their names down to big 'em up
(True, true)
"Yeah, here we go...just go with the flow"
Yo, I'd like to check this microphone before I start right quick
Microphone check 2,2,1,2,1,2
[Verse 1]
Big up all the Monsta' Island massive
And beware before I triple dare you like the last kid
He ask me what we don't got that you got son
For one, flow that's elementary my dear Wat-son
Secondly, ever since I was little
Not so much to riddle, least rhyme to the syllable
Keep tracks that make a Arab thief clap
With no hands, I chop these drums off
Truly yours, G Rap
Actual fact, relax
In this land of lyrical loss, black
I'm not the cool sleet stack
The one who might stop and talk to you
Poison to you, niggas who be bitin' styles I'm like pork too
Oooh...what you got to lose? Let mud fly
When I got blues I chew whole crews that's bud dry
So I ask why the style's from the cess
Shit be fuckin with my eye as I pull it to the chest
The super muthafuckin' villain grip the mic wit an iron hand
Throwin MCs to the fire from out da fryin' pan
It ain't no use in tryin, man
Son, stop cryin
Frontin' like you death-defyin'
You need to stop lyin'
Speak your piece only once you're spoken to first
Now lemme hear your verse while I'm chokin' you
With bubbly fine rhymes like a editor
Throw them to my collection of skulls and spines like Predator
Fuck around, the only niggas who could hear the same sound (Who?)
Was Jet Jaguar and James Brown
(Word, only them two niggas?)
And I'm glad I took the time to write their names down to big 'em up
(True, true)
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