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*Girl whining on telephone* |
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(Chorus - Planetary) |
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Be careful who you talk to |
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The places that you walk through |
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You never know when somebody is creepin', tryin' to hawk you |
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Better grab your gat too |
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'cause niggaz will attack you |
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And blast you, right behind your back |
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'cause the cash rules |
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(Crypt the Warchild and Planetary) |
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Yo |
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Industry rule number four thousand and eighty: |
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Record execs are made shady for gravy |
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Protecting your neck can save you and save me |
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We step on the set, like fuck you, pay me |
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Give 'em a chance, and they'll take food from your babies |
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And stress you out, to drive a grown nigga crazy |
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Now ain't that crazy? You ain't kiddin', man |
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They run for cover when the shit really hit the fan |
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The snakes in the garden, pray on your downfall |
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Abondon shit, it's hazardous, and they can drown y'all |
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Exploit your people with a image, they can clown y'all |
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The voice of evil in your ear, you hear the sound, y'all |
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(Chorus) |
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(Planetary) |
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Yo |
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Ain't nothin' worse than a sheisty bitch |
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She'll take cream in your credit, the ice and the whip |
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Your life and your kids, you're flippin' your lid |
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Kicked out the crib |
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A baby on the way, you don't know who's it is |
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It might be yours, life on pause, nights on tour |
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You try to call the bitch, but she yappin' the jaw |
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You feel like smackin' the whore |
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She contacted the law |
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Like you never smacked her before |
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Why she actin' all raw? |
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*Talking* |
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(Planetary) |
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Yo |
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Just to clarify, I'm Planetary, I terrify |
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Prepare to die, dawg, but never try |
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I am the next millenium rapper |
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Got you trembelin' after the shots blown from the stage |
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Every sentence I master, nigga |
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Toxeeded, Philly to Chi-Town town even panics at the ground bleeding |
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When they hear the sound of demons |
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I'm fiending this seed of blood dripping from heathens |
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The reason underground and mainstream had a meetin' |
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I'm lookin for liquor to drink away the pain |
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But when the store close I cut my wrist and drink it from the veins |
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That's in me, Crypt, you you feel me? |
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A basket case, we take souls from their bodies, a blast of ??plates?? |
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On fire for real, and I retire my deal |
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It don't matter, I still got wounds and I'm too tired to heal |
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Every rhyme is for real, and I'ma break these adams |
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I've been spittin' since ninety one, you can't erase this passion |
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(Crypt the Warchild) |
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Yo |
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I see this niggaz, think they big and they bad |
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Whylin' out in the club and ??duck?? pissin' in bags |
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And I ain't even got to use a clip or a mag |
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I use a twelve inch blade to split shit when I'm mad |
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Let you rot six days, 'til the stinkin' is bad |
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Let my pen print rage when it sinks in the pad, homie |
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So get it right, I'm a murder machine |
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Stampeded through the wilderness to murder your team |
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Cats bleedin' like I slit they wrist, burstin' their dreams |
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Guaranteeing you'll be feelin' this, superb when I glean |
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I spit fire, homocidal, and there's no reasoning |
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Get drunk, bury the needle, killing season is in |
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Headhunt, buryin' people in this steep full of sin |
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I'm leatherface with a chainsaw, splittin' your chin |
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So don't approach me with no lame talk, as simple as grim |
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Unless you like to see your frame choke again and again, nigga |
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(Somebody talking) |
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Now that's what I'm talkin' about, man |
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Murder these motherfuckas, dawg |
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We outta this bitch, man, meet me at the motherfuckin' bar |
