Información de la canción En esta página puedes encontrar la letra de la canción Spit Sumthin (feat. Hoodizm, Sniper, Rapper K, Cl’ Che & Justice Allah), artista - K Rino. canción del álbum Annihilation of the Evil Machine, en el genero Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Fecha de emisión: 22.08.2010
Etiqueta de registro: Black Book International
Spit Sumthin (feat. Hoodizm, Sniper, Rapper K, Cl’ Che & Justice Allah) |
I stay focused, life’s all about balance |
Success breeds ‘cause God gave me this talent |
I never rode the bench, I always been a starter |
And overtime gon' cost you more than four quarters |
Big mouths I slap shut and slap nuts I vanquish |
Flap them lips too much you’ll leave using sign language |
Call me king ‘cause I wreck ‘em, polish ‘em with my septum |
Trap ‘em when I catch ‘em, put motion sensors in they rectum |
And then I send ‘em through so they can roam the blue |
And you bet not call the police ‘cause every step you take I’ll be watching you |
I’ll be watching you, I swear every step you take I’ll be watching you |
Sick militant flow, like a carbine |
Explicit with the lyrics, watch me blow like a time bomb |
Soldier of fortune, no time for the outcome |
SPC, where the hell Sniper come from? |
H-Town, baby, no love for you busters |
Regime too raw, that’s why they don’t love us |
The Mexican patna reppin' SPC |
Nobody in the game doing it like me |
I’m surrounded by history, a legend in the making |
K-Rino said homie that it’s mine for the taking |
Can’t mess with the warriors, I’m bringing the pain |
Snipe with the beast, militant mind-frame |
Rapper K is the answer to the question of who is it |
Got the call from the, flip my tongue like a lizard |
Had no choice but to react when I first heard this track |
Started jottin' down lines in the back of the Lac |
Contemplating to myself, now where should I begin? |
I’m headed to the lab, my phone rings, it’s K again |
Said, «I'm giving you a heads-up, you better bring your A-game |
‘cause GT just killed it and Sniper wasn’t playin' |
I arrived at the lab and heard this sh*t, he wasn’t frontin' |
Now I’m standing at the mic, I’m ‘bout to spit something |
I’m ‘bout to shine, ‘bout to go for mine |
I only got twelve lines, ah sh*t, I’m outta time |
Cool game, |
Not only hood, they internationally know my name |
Cl' Che but you can call me Ms West |
The only rap chick in South Park in the library history chest |
SPC, SUC, you can run across me, legendary emcee |
Every word in my lyrics done paid dues |
Google me, baby, under the keyword «She's a «They hittin' me from Germany saying, «Cl' Che’s cool» |
They can’t speak English but they rappin' every word I put in Pro Tools |
Spit something or just repeat this, «She's a little mama and she’s a bad chick |
Just as is Anakin Skywalker before transforming to Darth Vader |
My pen takes the form of a lightsaber |
We touching the paper, my thoughts condense from vapors |
My neighbors savor the flavor like babies pacing in front of a pit filled with |
alligators |
When calibrating my brain, can’t remain unanimated |
I allocated a heavy dose of pain, it’s navigated |
Straight to your mainframe through the main vein |
You strain in vain to maintain but can’t contain |
The flame the God rained down with love for Abel but disdain for Cain |
Who he labeled a murderer of his brother, which was unstable and deranged |
But now we gang-bang and slang ‘caine |
I’m a South Park assassin that’s sicker than straw fakers |
Walk-ins are, take upon all takers |
God bless you and your mama |
When f*ckin' with Murder, you end up with multiple head trauma |
I talk the talk, walk the walk |
So ease on down the road end up in chalk |
I have no preference who I devour, man |
Me with a hundred round clip make it easy to shower man |
Now whoever thought Murder One was a rowdy man |
A everyday cat that runs with a rowdy clan |
South Park Coalition is the name of this rowdy band |
Murder One and I’m outie man |
I spot moon rocks with my optics |
Got subatomic harpoons and deadly monsoons in my pocket |
I pause and start morphing |
Inner body experience where I enter your body and crush organs |
I think 'til the floor spins |
I’m still bombing after the war ends, endorphins so strong they make swords bend |
Live and execute a rough lyrics prolific shooter |
In the womb receiving visions from my physics tutor |
Once the beat ignites, no more MCs in sight |
I’m from a planet where midgets are seven feet in height |
I don’t let cowards speak plus my powers deep |
Work for nine years in a row and recharge on a hour’s sleep |
Officer Cartwheel, officer Cooper |
Tuck your tails in when you see us on street, if not, we shoot ya |
On your way to hell ‘cause heaven you never made it |
Walk around in your shell ‘cause your soul’s been desecrated |
Don’t slouch, keep my pistol in perfect pouch |
Hit you when you in your Snuggie, sittin' on your curvy couch |
Rhymes blow up, scar you in legions |
Twisted metal travels to equatorial regions |
Retaliation got a lot of remedies |
One by one your family members erased like Kennedys |
I’m a rapper slash producer slash terrorist |
Slash illuminati grow from ear to ear, I’m the scariest |
Out a playa know his mama planted the truth in me |
And grew up so big 'til it popped, now it’s loose in me |
Mind frame brain ain’t the same that it used to be |
I rather live life than chase women and jewelry |
Spit game came with a heavenly layer |
beware, be everywhere |
It ain’t no playin' with you, busters, I will shoot in the air |
But instead of spittin' some bullets, I’ma spit you a prayer |
Dear God, let ‘em ride, give ‘em where to survive |
Leave 'em alive, even if he wishing I died |
And dear God, let ‘em ride even if we collide |
‘cause I know even when I’m wrong, I want you on my side |
And that’s |
Spittin' at you fools, |
Kick down doors, go and stage |
Seek the truth, gain self-knowledge |
Educate yourself, as well as go college |
Spit from the mind, spit to the beat |
Spit from the heart, spit for those raised on the streets |
Words transcribe onto paper without thinking |
Some think they’re on top but I see ‘em sinking |
I’m a spitter, old school tagger |
Flows still sharp like a sharpened dagger |
Climb the ladder from the gutter to the stage |
Now I spit something just to earn my wage |
It’s the return of |
Class of '89, bloodline SPC |
I’m a lyrical train-wreck, spot-rocker, |
Slam dunk kind of flow |
Shattered the glass in South Park but I was on the court in Tokyo |
Half man, half silverback |
Half of my opponent hanging out my mouth |
I got an anaconda’s digestive tract |
Assassin’s Creed hard when I spit |
But so hard and jumped on my d*ck |
rare breed of the SPC seed |
signing out live from, yo |
Uh, full block say goodbye when I spit something |
That’s for ni**as left, we burn and get to dumpin' |
That’s for ni**as thinking they chick won’t leave ‘cause a ni**a rich |
But when, she got hooked on the bigger fish |
I’m like the old school Wu, all about cream |
Getting to the been like sippin' on lean |
Gotta spit something, bringing out the team |
Got enough drive for two and a half men, call me Charlie Green |
I’m in the streets with that thing, I gotta get it right |
You can dodge for so long like Eddie, my chopper Scary Spice |
I leave the like a college grad |
What I spit, ni**as catching bullets like a young Jerry Rice |
Point Blank, the Southside OG |
They know the real so they still keep they eyes on me |
You might not see me on BET or things of that nature |
Can’t get no play when ni**as at the radio station hate ya |
One thing they can’t take from me is the streets |
A lot of these pussies can’t be found in the streets |
Yeah, like I’m all over |
Call me AI when I hit the state-line and I crossover |
I represent Texas like Vince, a boss like Prince, you can check my prints |
You might see me in the club with some Lords and Bloods |
Got a sherm flow motherf*ckin' enjoy the drugs |
Wanna get high with the Blankster? F*ck that |
The door closed, all you b*tch ni**as and you fake h*es |
South Park Coalition, that’s us |
Remember that when you start talkin' ‘bout Houston and don’t mention us |
I’m suffering, my heart is in pain |
I’m a madman ‘cause the whole world is insane |
I read scriptures ‘cause decisions come too hard |
Money, cash, currency — which is our true god? |
Good or bad, right or wrong, life’s a seesaw |
Sometimes the straight and narrow path has a detour |
My mind clicks like a snare with a mob kick |
Ideas spark like a high hat constant |
The city breeze, the streets are a part of me |
Danger don’t bother me, there’s ice water in my arteries |
I mean-mug a alligator like he did something |
Stared a cobra eye to eye, dared him to spit something |
spit hot lava disperse |
Rough like tryna quench a thirst |
Must release a verse among the first |
Clicked up fools puttin' up in a hearse |
Pressure bust pipes where the sh*t done burst |
These fools right here are the worst |
Claim your turf, we claim the earth |
Hardest clique b*tch from the birth |
Only curse is spittin' the truth |
Call the laws when in the booth |
Soft ass h*es pray to live |
This track missing one thing, AC Chill |
Ni**as always ask me why I kick this psycho sh*t |
I got a axe with ten blades that I might go get |
If I explain it to you, ni**a, then you will get hit |
Tell your mama it’s a black dress she needs to go get |
When it sticks in, that motherf*cker makes me proud |
Spray blood so thick and far it looks like a cloud |
And I love ‘em so much that I named all ten |
But I won’t say they names 'til they all go in and come out |
The brains left for stains |
And that’s the reason why I gave ‘em ten different names |
Like Becky, Robert, Kevin, Michael and Drew |
Keisha,, K-Rino, you name the last two uh |
It all started |
In the kitchen with a mission, tryna beat the competition |
Treat it like a job so I can retire with a pension |
Hit the block with a, four oz’s in my pocket |
I’m outta control, you just can’t stop me |
J. Water in this b*tch and I’m spittin' on the mic |
And I promise that I can do it all night |
Yeah motherf*ckin' ni**as, SPC |
When you lookin' for that white girl, come see me |
I’m a beast in these streets, monster in this motherf*ckin' game |
When they call me, I let them bullets rain |
No matter the consequences, I’m still here |
Sippin' syrup, smoking' herb in the atmosphere, yeah, hahh |
I politick when it come to spit these rhymes |
Boy talkin' about my rep, man, ‘cause they ain’t got a style like mine |
I’m the new generation, I got the remedy to rep |
No disabilities, only the ability to snap |
I’ll take words and abstract, you can call me analyst |
Boy talkin' ‘bout they gon' run when they peters can’t even spit sh*t |
Ni**as like the way I rip this, my tongue I flip it |
Yeah they like the way I spit it |
See, how many times have we done this, man? |
How many clique songs have you heard over the years from the South Park |
Coalition? |
All the way down, slipped into a coma murder script |
Name on a bullet, the original South Park Coalition |
This what we do, man |
So all the rappers around the world, y’all keep on makin' y’all clique songs, |
man |
Let’s keep this thing going, we can keep throwing |
Keepin' that work in, mash on these tricks, yeah, haha, that’s it, |
it ain’t enough room in this booth for all us |