[Intro: O & E]
Yo, O, pick up the phone, it’s E
Yo, yo, what up, E? What up?
Yo, what’s going on, kid?
Chilling, man, what’s going on with you?
Yo, you heard the O.C. shit?
Yeah, yeah, that shit is flavor, kid. What’s the word? Yo, yo
Yo
Man, yo, well, talk to you later, man
[Verse: O.C.]
Uh
I never ran from a man unless Glock get cocked in my face
I dash before the *gunshot*
Dissed the sister ‘cause she didn’t like ya, mister
Bust your ego on down like a blister
The party was packed
In fact black ladies with back were stacked inside of the place like flapjacks
First of all, what you call hardcore? Who’s hardcore?
I gets grit in your teeth and lock in your jaw
Mess hall is filled with crooks and criminals
Ill type of characters giving up ill subliminals
Get nostalgia from a rhyme that I wrote long time ago
Found this place, I figured “Who would know?”
The body’s a poem, talking ‘bout the mind more powerful than anything known to mankind
My flight has begun, stand clear of the runway
The only way I see you killing me is with gunplay
In many ways and more peeps die in the raw
Flip the word around, now “raw” spells “war”
Never could I kill a man to fill a void of prosperous life
He gets burnt like phosphorus
Crooked your face from the slap of my base in your grill piece
You’re the lamb I took fleece from
You underestimate the quest of fate
Destined for a date with O.C. the Great, ha
Ruling benevolence over a girl named Evelyn
Getting woman to succeed in my field of medicine
Fuck the ones who adjourned my concern with all-out conceit
I cop the Ogee beats
Balance, not bullets, the world is already full of nonsense
So I’ll contribute to your conscience
O (Yeah?), raise up the kicks (Hmm), pop back in the disc
Make it feel as though the slapping of a fist
Flip verses, skip curses, dodge hearses
Collect fat purses, stay surface above the dead planet
Earth of granite
A thousand emcees of my sex is satanic
I’m sticking to my comments, never rap nonsense
The metaphoric title of my table of contents is logic
No such thing as modern, out and achieve
But some are still deadweight, rock-bottom
Talking shhh, sparking for nothing
Barking up the wrong damn tree, homie, slice cold-bluffing
Alas, ain’t nothing mashing just for fashion
What’s the object? It’s, like, no main topic
Yo, O, pick up the phone, it’s E
Yo, yo, what up, E? What up?
Yo, what’s going on, kid?
Chilling, man, what’s going on with you?
Yo, you heard the O.C. shit?
Yeah, yeah, that shit is flavor, kid. What’s the word? Yo, yo
Yo
Man, yo, well, talk to you later, man
[Verse: O.C.]
Uh
I never ran from a man unless Glock get cocked in my face
I dash before the *gunshot*
Dissed the sister ‘cause she didn’t like ya, mister
Bust your ego on down like a blister
The party was packed
In fact black ladies with back were stacked inside of the place like flapjacks
First of all, what you call hardcore? Who’s hardcore?
I gets grit in your teeth and lock in your jaw
Mess hall is filled with crooks and criminals
Ill type of characters giving up ill subliminals
Get nostalgia from a rhyme that I wrote long time ago
Found this place, I figured “Who would know?”
The body’s a poem, talking ‘bout the mind more powerful than anything known to mankind
My flight has begun, stand clear of the runway
The only way I see you killing me is with gunplay
In many ways and more peeps die in the raw
Flip the word around, now “raw” spells “war”
Never could I kill a man to fill a void of prosperous life
He gets burnt like phosphorus
Crooked your face from the slap of my base in your grill piece
You’re the lamb I took fleece from
You underestimate the quest of fate
Destined for a date with O.C. the Great, ha
Ruling benevolence over a girl named Evelyn
Getting woman to succeed in my field of medicine
Fuck the ones who adjourned my concern with all-out conceit
I cop the Ogee beats
Balance, not bullets, the world is already full of nonsense
So I’ll contribute to your conscience
O (Yeah?), raise up the kicks (Hmm), pop back in the disc
Make it feel as though the slapping of a fist
Flip verses, skip curses, dodge hearses
Collect fat purses, stay surface above the dead planet
Earth of granite
A thousand emcees of my sex is satanic
I’m sticking to my comments, never rap nonsense
The metaphoric title of my table of contents is logic
No such thing as modern, out and achieve
But some are still deadweight, rock-bottom
Talking shhh, sparking for nothing
Barking up the wrong damn tree, homie, slice cold-bluffing
Alas, ain’t nothing mashing just for fashion
What’s the object? It’s, like, no main topic
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