Straight Spittin Lyrics
| Song | Straight Spittin |
| Artist | Flipmode Squad |
| Album | The Imperial Album |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Copeland, Fisher, Hernandez ... | |
| Straight spittin' | |
| Flipmode squad | |
| _the_imperial_ | |
| I'll bust all you cats in the game for malpractice | |
| I'm in jersey, where i'm paying no taxes | |
| I'll stick your girl, agnus | |
| Flipmode bring the madness | |
| Platinum status, rampage i'm the baddest | |
| Check the credit, yo you might as well dead it | |
| I said it, fuck the edit, it's uncut | |
| Nigga what, it's crunch time for me to shine | |
| I'm a show you easily for me to take mines | |
| Pass my nickel plated nine, call me einstein | |
| Buck a shot two times and stick you for your rhyme | |
| Put you in a pine box | |
| You and your whole family's on detox | |
| Hustlin crack for reeboks | |
| Holy socks, cut you with my ox | |
| Rampage got the city locked | |
| And your function, to the flat bush junction | |
| Causin rambunction, watch me do you somethin | |
| Baby sham on some new shit | |
| New and exclusive | |
| 5'3", caramel, tight grip on a four fifth | |
| Leave em all stiff, blow smoke from this foul drift | |
| Nigga with the 6 story, throw em off the cliff | |
| As i speak the shit to put my name on the list | |
| The small thug with a slug put a mark on his wrist | |
| A tattoo of pyramids, puttin hollows in clips | |
| Peeped your gat, jammed tight, ross your lookin to riff (what the fuck?) | |
| Qb's type shit, cause we runnin your clique | |
| See me in the drop, with your six, sayin she snitched | |
| But never that, cuz-o, high beam through the window | |
| My lookouts move slow, they heard you never blast though | |
| Got a safe in your crib, sham, you know the code | |
| Search, spoke out, 3, 2, 1, that's zero | |
| Took the c notes and flip mode left on the quietest note | |
| Swallowed these then cleared your throat | |
| Bitch ass, you should have spoke | |
| *gimmie an f* | |
| Fuck the bullshit, fire my gun | |
| Fly a nigga head, fuck it for fun | |
| Fuck where you from | |
| *gimmie an l* | |
| Layin on beaches, killin all leeches | |
| Love to break a liar face | |
| Pick up the pieces, yo | |
| *gimmie an i* | |
| Intelligence eliminates all irrelavance | |
| Icon of immaculate rhyme common sense | |
| *gimmie a p* | |
| Powerful professional | |
| Poppin my pistol | |
| Make a pack of people paranoid like 20 pitbulls | |
| *gimmie an m* | |
| Master of all missions | |
| Maker of decisions | |
| Head on collisions | |
| Massacre the meat rack, ask the women | |
| *gimmie an o* | |
| Got niggas open, open heart surgery | |
| Rhyme so official, overthrow governments | |
| Shit is nursery | |
| *gimmie a d* | |
| Diggin my dick all inside your chick | |
| Dominate the heavyweight division | |
| Rhymin district | |
| *gimmie an e* | |
| Everlasting slang | |
| Eternal ebonics | |
| Lyrical e-mail | |
| Stabalize livin in all my economics | |
| *squad* | |
| Group of men, women | |
| Unified force | |
| Squadron | |
| Movin like one in unison | |
| Beg your pardon | |
| What they call me | |
| A hundred on a harley | |
| Out of nowhere, and keep you surfin like brawley(sp?) | |
| Narley! i'm the bitch with the pistol | |
| Woody woodpecker or l.l. at the bristol | |
| Official stand, hold it down in trent | |
| Then link up at the tunnel with the rest of my camp | |
| Paper like meade, i'm in the mix like speed | |
| And be screamin on the mic till my tonsils bleed | |
| Yeah that's the way it is | |
| Like when a kid get chirstened | |
| Like comin to the bricks to find your whip missin | |
| Rockin uptown, on down to west howston | |
| Houston, peace to my bitches that's boostin | |
| After juicin, i'm a straight black ball a rapper | |
| Tap a nigga's nerves like them hackers | |
| Be goin on the modem, i get the call from the dispatcher | |
| Then show them mother f'ers what i'm after | |
| Yo i back slap a wack mc for trying to be | |
| Something he not, pull his card, blow up his spot | |
| Nigga talkin bout murder but ain't committin one | |
| Niggas talkin bout gats but ain't bustin one | |
| Yo, i see you in the (?) portayin like you a thug | |
| Yea, your man got a gatt, but he ain't bustin no slug | |
| You | |
| You's a local black spokesman, i split your front open | |
| Viscious knife wound, fucked up like ron goldman | |
| Spliff, i spit, fully equipped for any bullshit | |
| Grew up with the bad and ugly, quick to pull shit | |
| Ignorant, vulgar, on your taperecorder | |
| Idol to your son and probably lover to your daughter | |
| Fatman son, wilted grandson, (?) nephew, frank the cousin | |
| ,more--(82%) | |
| *uh huh, one more time, uh huh, spliff, come on* | |
| Bust my gun, like columbians | |
| Make niggas colapse like fucked up lungs | |
| Better obey the laws of the land | |
| Or lay still like soldiers of fortune in nam | |
| Closed coffin with flags folded in half | |
| Triangular shape, blow out the candles with grace | |
| For fabulous tastes, some will, battle for space | |
| Pay the ultimate price, poltergeist | |
| Put the holy ghost in your life, bring you closer to christ | |
| Focus your dice, when the vulture's in flight | |
| Resculpture the mic, then smash heads like the opium bite | |
| Prophet in vein, metropolis claim body and soul | |
| Id's controlled in the optical frame | |
| Never stoppin the game | |
| Remove your squad with steady plans | |
| I body slam punks like superstar billy gramm | |
| *straight spittin...word is bond...flip mode squad...striaght spittin...lyrical | |
| Ass whippin...we straight spittin....* |
| zuo ci : Copeland, Fisher, Hernandez ... | |
| Straight spittin' | |
| Flipmode squad | |
| _the_imperial_ | |
| I' ll bust all you cats in the game for malpractice | |
| I' m in jersey, where i' m paying no taxes | |
| I' ll stick your girl, agnus | |
| Flipmode bring the madness | |
| Platinum status, rampage i' m the baddest | |
| Check the credit, yo you might as well dead it | |
| I said it, fuck the edit, it' s uncut | |
| Nigga what, it' s crunch time for me to shine | |
| I' m a show you easily for me to take mines | |
| Pass my nickel plated nine, call me einstein | |
| Buck a shot two times and stick you for your rhyme | |
| Put you in a pine box | |
| You and your whole family' s on detox | |
| Hustlin crack for reeboks | |
| Holy socks, cut you with my ox | |
| Rampage got the city locked | |
| And your function, to the flat bush junction | |
| Causin rambunction, watch me do you somethin | |
| Baby sham on some new shit | |
| New and exclusive | |
| 5' 3", caramel, tight grip on a four fifth | |
| Leave em all stiff, blow smoke from this foul drift | |
| Nigga with the 6 story, throw em off the cliff | |
| As i speak the shit to put my name on the list | |
| The small thug with a slug put a mark on his wrist | |
| A tattoo of pyramids, puttin hollows in clips | |
| Peeped your gat, jammed tight, ross your lookin to riff what the fuck? | |
| Qb' s type shit, cause we runnin your clique | |
| See me in the drop, with your six, sayin she snitched | |
| But never that, cuzo, high beam through the window | |
| My lookouts move slow, they heard you never blast though | |
| Got a safe in your crib, sham, you know the code | |
| Search, spoke out, 3, 2, 1, that' s zero | |
| Took the c notes and flip mode left on the quietest note | |
| Swallowed these then cleared your throat | |
| Bitch ass, you should have spoke | |
| gimmie an f | |
| Fuck the bullshit, fire my gun | |
| Fly a nigga head, fuck it for fun | |
| Fuck where you from | |
| gimmie an l | |
| Layin on beaches, killin all leeches | |
| Love to break a liar face | |
| Pick up the pieces, yo | |
| gimmie an i | |
| Intelligence eliminates all irrelavance | |
| Icon of immaculate rhyme common sense | |
| gimmie a p | |
| Powerful professional | |
| Poppin my pistol | |
| Make a pack of people paranoid like 20 pitbulls | |
| gimmie an m | |
| Master of all missions | |
| Maker of decisions | |
| Head on collisions | |
| Massacre the meat rack, ask the women | |
| gimmie an o | |
| Got niggas open, open heart surgery | |
| Rhyme so official, overthrow governments | |
| Shit is nursery | |
| gimmie a d | |
| Diggin my dick all inside your chick | |
| Dominate the heavyweight division | |
| Rhymin district | |
| gimmie an e | |
| Everlasting slang | |
| Eternal ebonics | |
| Lyrical email | |
| Stabalize livin in all my economics | |
| squad | |
| Group of men, women | |
| Unified force | |
| Squadron | |
| Movin like one in unison | |
| Beg your pardon | |
| What they call me | |
| A hundred on a harley | |
| Out of nowhere, and keep you surfin like brawley sp? | |
| Narley! i' m the bitch with the pistol | |
| Woody woodpecker or l. l. at the bristol | |
| Official stand, hold it down in trent | |
| Then link up at the tunnel with the rest of my camp | |
| Paper like meade, i' m in the mix like speed | |
| And be screamin on the mic till my tonsils bleed | |
| Yeah that' s the way it is | |
| Like when a kid get chirstened | |
| Like comin to the bricks to find your whip missin | |
| Rockin uptown, on down to west howston | |
| Houston, peace to my bitches that' s boostin | |
| After juicin, i' m a straight black ball a rapper | |
| Tap a nigga' s nerves like them hackers | |
| Be goin on the modem, i get the call from the dispatcher | |
| Then show them mother f' ers what i' m after | |
| Yo i back slap a wack mc for trying to be | |
| Something he not, pull his card, blow up his spot | |
| Nigga talkin bout murder but ain' t committin one | |
| Niggas talkin bout gats but ain' t bustin one | |
| Yo, i see you in the ? portayin like you a thug | |
| Yea, your man got a gatt, but he ain' t bustin no slug | |
| You | |
| You' s a local black spokesman, i split your front open | |
| Viscious knife wound, fucked up like ron goldman | |
| Spliff, i spit, fully equipped for any bullshit | |
| Grew up with the bad and ugly, quick to pull shit | |
| Ignorant, vulgar, on your taperecorder | |
| Idol to your son and probably lover to your daughter | |
| Fatman son, wilted grandson, ? nephew, frank the cousin | |
| , more 82 | |
| uh huh, one more time, uh huh, spliff, come on | |
| Bust my gun, like columbians | |
| Make niggas colapse like fucked up lungs | |
| Better obey the laws of the land | |
| Or lay still like soldiers of fortune in nam | |
| Closed coffin with flags folded in half | |
| Triangular shape, blow out the candles with grace | |
| For fabulous tastes, some will, battle for space | |
| Pay the ultimate price, poltergeist | |
| Put the holy ghost in your life, bring you closer to christ | |
| Focus your dice, when the vulture' s in flight | |
| Resculpture the mic, then smash heads like the opium bite | |
| Prophet in vein, metropolis claim body and soul | |
| Id' s controlled in the optical frame | |
| Never stoppin the game | |
| Remove your squad with steady plans | |
| I body slam punks like superstar billy gramm | |
| straight spittin... word is bond... flip mode squad... striaght spittin... lyrical | |
| Ass whippin... we straight spittin.... |
| zuò cí : Copeland, Fisher, Hernandez ... | |
| Straight spittin' | |
| Flipmode squad | |
| _the_imperial_ | |
| I' ll bust all you cats in the game for malpractice | |
| I' m in jersey, where i' m paying no taxes | |
| I' ll stick your girl, agnus | |
| Flipmode bring the madness | |
| Platinum status, rampage i' m the baddest | |
| Check the credit, yo you might as well dead it | |
| I said it, fuck the edit, it' s uncut | |
| Nigga what, it' s crunch time for me to shine | |
| I' m a show you easily for me to take mines | |
| Pass my nickel plated nine, call me einstein | |
| Buck a shot two times and stick you for your rhyme | |
| Put you in a pine box | |
| You and your whole family' s on detox | |
| Hustlin crack for reeboks | |
| Holy socks, cut you with my ox | |
| Rampage got the city locked | |
| And your function, to the flat bush junction | |
| Causin rambunction, watch me do you somethin | |
| Baby sham on some new shit | |
| New and exclusive | |
| 5' 3", caramel, tight grip on a four fifth | |
| Leave em all stiff, blow smoke from this foul drift | |
| Nigga with the 6 story, throw em off the cliff | |
| As i speak the shit to put my name on the list | |
| The small thug with a slug put a mark on his wrist | |
| A tattoo of pyramids, puttin hollows in clips | |
| Peeped your gat, jammed tight, ross your lookin to riff what the fuck? | |
| Qb' s type shit, cause we runnin your clique | |
| See me in the drop, with your six, sayin she snitched | |
| But never that, cuzo, high beam through the window | |
| My lookouts move slow, they heard you never blast though | |
| Got a safe in your crib, sham, you know the code | |
| Search, spoke out, 3, 2, 1, that' s zero | |
| Took the c notes and flip mode left on the quietest note | |
| Swallowed these then cleared your throat | |
| Bitch ass, you should have spoke | |
| gimmie an f | |
| Fuck the bullshit, fire my gun | |
| Fly a nigga head, fuck it for fun | |
| Fuck where you from | |
| gimmie an l | |
| Layin on beaches, killin all leeches | |
| Love to break a liar face | |
| Pick up the pieces, yo | |
| gimmie an i | |
| Intelligence eliminates all irrelavance | |
| Icon of immaculate rhyme common sense | |
| gimmie a p | |
| Powerful professional | |
| Poppin my pistol | |
| Make a pack of people paranoid like 20 pitbulls | |
| gimmie an m | |
| Master of all missions | |
| Maker of decisions | |
| Head on collisions | |
| Massacre the meat rack, ask the women | |
| gimmie an o | |
| Got niggas open, open heart surgery | |
| Rhyme so official, overthrow governments | |
| Shit is nursery | |
| gimmie a d | |
| Diggin my dick all inside your chick | |
| Dominate the heavyweight division | |
| Rhymin district | |
| gimmie an e | |
| Everlasting slang | |
| Eternal ebonics | |
| Lyrical email | |
| Stabalize livin in all my economics | |
| squad | |
| Group of men, women | |
| Unified force | |
| Squadron | |
| Movin like one in unison | |
| Beg your pardon | |
| What they call me | |
| A hundred on a harley | |
| Out of nowhere, and keep you surfin like brawley sp? | |
| Narley! i' m the bitch with the pistol | |
| Woody woodpecker or l. l. at the bristol | |
| Official stand, hold it down in trent | |
| Then link up at the tunnel with the rest of my camp | |
| Paper like meade, i' m in the mix like speed | |
| And be screamin on the mic till my tonsils bleed | |
| Yeah that' s the way it is | |
| Like when a kid get chirstened | |
| Like comin to the bricks to find your whip missin | |
| Rockin uptown, on down to west howston | |
| Houston, peace to my bitches that' s boostin | |
| After juicin, i' m a straight black ball a rapper | |
| Tap a nigga' s nerves like them hackers | |
| Be goin on the modem, i get the call from the dispatcher | |
| Then show them mother f' ers what i' m after | |
| Yo i back slap a wack mc for trying to be | |
| Something he not, pull his card, blow up his spot | |
| Nigga talkin bout murder but ain' t committin one | |
| Niggas talkin bout gats but ain' t bustin one | |
| Yo, i see you in the ? portayin like you a thug | |
| Yea, your man got a gatt, but he ain' t bustin no slug | |
| You | |
| You' s a local black spokesman, i split your front open | |
| Viscious knife wound, fucked up like ron goldman | |
| Spliff, i spit, fully equipped for any bullshit | |
| Grew up with the bad and ugly, quick to pull shit | |
| Ignorant, vulgar, on your taperecorder | |
| Idol to your son and probably lover to your daughter | |
| Fatman son, wilted grandson, ? nephew, frank the cousin | |
| , more 82 | |
| uh huh, one more time, uh huh, spliff, come on | |
| Bust my gun, like columbians | |
| Make niggas colapse like fucked up lungs | |
| Better obey the laws of the land | |
| Or lay still like soldiers of fortune in nam | |
| Closed coffin with flags folded in half | |
| Triangular shape, blow out the candles with grace | |
| For fabulous tastes, some will, battle for space | |
| Pay the ultimate price, poltergeist | |
| Put the holy ghost in your life, bring you closer to christ | |
| Focus your dice, when the vulture' s in flight | |
| Resculpture the mic, then smash heads like the opium bite | |
| Prophet in vein, metropolis claim body and soul | |
| Id' s controlled in the optical frame | |
| Never stoppin the game | |
| Remove your squad with steady plans | |
| I body slam punks like superstar billy gramm | |
| straight spittin... word is bond... flip mode squad... striaght spittin... lyrical | |
| Ass whippin... we straight spittin.... |
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