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I'm your Testarosa. First gear |
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Watch me go, keep 'em in fear |
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Rumble, young man rumble |
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Brother won't fumble, muthafukas just crumble |
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Gaskets crank, rappers get spank |
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Stripes get yank, a superior rank |
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Won't stop the jock in some American car use a lyrical radar |
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But I'm rolling, the cartel's tolling |
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For the D's keep folding |
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Most Cadillac rappers get look and disturb |
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By the jet black blur |
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Me, the Testarosa running like it suppose ta |
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Don't try to get closer |
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Cause you might get lost in the dual exhaust |
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Don't ever try to fuck wit' a boss |
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High octane there ain't no ping |
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When I swing on a lyrical speed king |
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And that's just first gear, listen for the upshift |
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Who can get wit' this |
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I'm your testarosa |
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Second gear, look it here queer |
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I'm in here, hitting like spears |
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The rhyme cartel slings legalized dope |
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Some cope, others get (gunshot noises) |
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Lost on the boss, it's finish is flawless |
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12 cylinders listen to the horses |
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It accelerates smooth |
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Move or else get move |
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Run for cover my brother, suckers are getting smothered |
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I ?cutted? you other ?smutters? rammed in the gutter |
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My rep is kept, muthafukas must step |
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The best get swept and let out to rest |
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Huuuu, look at that air intake |
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Second gear, passing fakes |
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Revolution per lyric get higher |
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How can I chill when my rhyme's on fire |
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As I approach the end of my tach |
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My lyrical horse power blows to the max |
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Red line is reached to the peak of my speech |
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And I told ya, I'm your Testarosa |
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Testarosa |
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Gear number three, get off the clutch and don't let 'em up |
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Keep 'em all down on these young bucks |
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Let 'em know big boss is just a bit quicker |
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Get the picture |
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Backtalk tolerated none, son |
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Left you at the gun when I hit gear one |
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Now I'm in third and you think that's quick |
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Huh, wait till I hit fifth |
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Me and my pack, we keep plenty of snackpacks |
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You said fat now I'm yo to the max |
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Want Mix-A-Lot for your next attack |
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Hey, yo, critical mass, yea, I got your gat |
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Two hundred sixty pounds of pure pain |
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Critical mass is my homeboy's name |
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My personal trainer, taking weight gainer |
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Got the bulk to crush and contain ya |
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On the tach, I'm like a wind ax |
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Cutting up air like Boeings aircraft |
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Time to shift and let my lyrical seatbelt hold ya |
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I'm your Testarosa |
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Up to fourth gear, the speed increase |
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Police got beef wit the word chief |
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Move or lose, I excuse the wack dudes |
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You light my fuse and clear out or get used |
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I go 100 in a 55 |
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No need to lip synch, I'm straight out live |
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So I'm rough lust who wanna be tough |
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You fuss and cuss wearing that Raider's stuff |
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Fake fools from around the way |
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Knowing damn well, you ain't from LA |
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Ashamed where you come from son, so you rattle |
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Like it or not, I scream straight up Seattle |
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Rip up streets wit a lyrical sweet |
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Don't peep or creep or you lose your freak |
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The cam's growl, engine loud |
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My tongue keep beating 'em down |
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Rev it up, get ready for fifth |
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Just hit 'em wit a maximum dis |
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I roll ya, fold ya, mold ya, I told ya I control ya |
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And I'm your Testarosa |
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I'm your Testarosa |
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Yo Punish, show 'em what time it is |
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Gear number five, you're eyes get wide |
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So realize that I survive and I rhyme for mine |
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I rope the dope and is he coming up, nope |
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I ain't the joke so don't hope for my throat |
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There it is, the whiz gets his |
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The word quiz is what it is and Mix don't give |
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Sight to the wack who act like Max |
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And try to jack a pop rap to hit the map |
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That ain't like me, it ain't cool |
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To rob another fool them claim you rule |
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You boot but not me, troops, you like juice |
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So you hit the stage wearing my boots |
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Uh ,uh cupcake, I ain't about to get rape by fake |
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Just look at the tail light shrink and then think |
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How I left you pink in a lyrical kink |
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Time to drop to my gears and then stop |
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'Cause I lock the box on them clowns that jock |
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Turbo cone is 230 up on ya |
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I'm your Testarosa |
