| Song | Boom Bashin' |
| Artist | Masta Ace |
| Album | SlaughtaHouse |
| 作词 : Clear, McFadden | |
| Here comes the boom, with the hip hop bash as i smash and crash | |
| How many gangsta rappers are gonna last? | |
| Not one, they got done, i had fun | |
| Doin em and screwin em and booin em and chewin em | |
| I'm slick and i'm quick, up my sleeve is a trick | |
| Hey! so what, i use funky drummers, suck my dick. | |
| I'm still thick, with murderous beats and heavy kick | |
| And i'm sick of the so-called shots ya gonna lick | |
| I slam and i slam and i slam, did i mention that i slam | |
| Don't eat spinach but i yam what i yam | |
| Death-defyin like a circus, i work this | |
| Mic, you can't jerk this, off-beat on purpose | |
| I never smoke dope, i don't carry a nine | |
| I ain't no hustler with bitches on my mind | |
| Gangstas are swimming in the water, | |
| I oughta, boom bash and slaughta | |
| I'ma break it down, and i do mean down, yo way down, | |
| So far downtown the devil's gonna call it underground | |
| And niggaz betta know the fuckin score | |
| Cuz i'm raw, like eddy, | |
| And like confetti they get tore | |
| Up, from the floor, up, | |
| There's no time | |
| And my spits gettin sprayed in ya face as i rhyme | |
| So run run run, ya better head for the hills | |
| Get ya gun gun gun, and ya cyanide pills | |
| And a rope for ya neck, and a razor for your wrists | |
| Cuz i'm pissed, and it's suicide to battle this | |
| Ummm, highly explosive, material | |
| Grand imperial, pour me on cereal | |
| Cuz i flow from the belly of a cow | |
| Wipe ya brow, how ya like me now | |
| You can get with this, or you can get with that | |
| But you can't get with the man with the mad snap hat | |
| I take em out with one blow to the cerebellum | |
| And tell 'em, my jams are so funky you can smell 'em | |
| Rhyme for rhyme, head for head with a one go | |
| I come from brooklyn, it's wild like a jungle | |
| Yeah, you might get a cap jack, ya act wack, | |
| I carry a can of flat black in my napsack | |
| Lookin for a wall to tag up, and brag up | |
| And rag up, yo nigga yo digga raise the flag up | |
| I click click my heels, and good is how it feels | |
| There's no place like home and chrome on ya wheels | |
| Chasin through the projects, i lose you | |
| Hope i didn't bruise you, i cruise through | |
| Your neighborhood, in a chevrolet impala | |
| Dropped to the ground and, makin the girls holla | |
| Rollin, rollin, rollin, i'm rollin | |
| Sorry officer, the car ain't stolen | |
| I really don't care what you thought of me | |
| I oughta be, far from orderly | |
| In my fashion, i boom and i bash and |
| zuò cí : Clear, McFadden | |
| Here comes the boom, with the hip hop bash as i smash and crash | |
| How many gangsta rappers are gonna last? | |
| Not one, they got done, i had fun | |
| Doin em and screwin em and booin em and chewin em | |
| I' m slick and i' m quick, up my sleeve is a trick | |
| Hey! so what, i use funky drummers, suck my dick. | |
| I' m still thick, with murderous beats and heavy kick | |
| And i' m sick of the socalled shots ya gonna lick | |
| I slam and i slam and i slam, did i mention that i slam | |
| Don' t eat spinach but i yam what i yam | |
| Deathdefyin like a circus, i work this | |
| Mic, you can' t jerk this, offbeat on purpose | |
| I never smoke dope, i don' t carry a nine | |
| I ain' t no hustler with bitches on my mind | |
| Gangstas are swimming in the water, | |
| I oughta, boom bash and slaughta | |
| I' ma break it down, and i do mean down, yo way down, | |
| So far downtown the devil' s gonna call it underground | |
| And niggaz betta know the fuckin score | |
| Cuz i' m raw, like eddy, | |
| And like confetti they get tore | |
| Up, from the floor, up, | |
| There' s no time | |
| And my spits gettin sprayed in ya face as i rhyme | |
| So run run run, ya better head for the hills | |
| Get ya gun gun gun, and ya cyanide pills | |
| And a rope for ya neck, and a razor for your wrists | |
| Cuz i' m pissed, and it' s suicide to battle this | |
| Ummm, highly explosive, material | |
| Grand imperial, pour me on cereal | |
| Cuz i flow from the belly of a cow | |
| Wipe ya brow, how ya like me now | |
| You can get with this, or you can get with that | |
| But you can' t get with the man with the mad snap hat | |
| I take em out with one blow to the cerebellum | |
| And tell ' em, my jams are so funky you can smell ' em | |
| Rhyme for rhyme, head for head with a one go | |
| I come from brooklyn, it' s wild like a jungle | |
| Yeah, you might get a cap jack, ya act wack, | |
| I carry a can of flat black in my napsack | |
| Lookin for a wall to tag up, and brag up | |
| And rag up, yo nigga yo digga raise the flag up | |
| I click click my heels, and good is how it feels | |
| There' s no place like home and chrome on ya wheels | |
| Chasin through the projects, i lose you | |
| Hope i didn' t bruise you, i cruise through | |
| Your neighborhood, in a chevrolet impala | |
| Dropped to the ground and, makin the girls holla | |
| Rollin, rollin, rollin, i' m rollin | |
| Sorry officer, the car ain' t stolen | |
| I really don' t care what you thought of me | |
| I oughta be, far from orderly | |
| In my fashion, i boom and i bash and |