| Song | Allied Meta-Forces |
| Artist | Canibus |
| Album | Miclub - The Curriculum |
| 作词 : Williams, Wilson, Yan, Yan. D. | |
| (Canibus) | |
| Yo, the shotee rip, perforate the skin on top of your ribs, | |
| Red stuff comes out of squibs like a Hollywood script, | |
| Bitch niggas on the floor screaming for mommy and shit, | |
| Cardiologists hook up the heart monitors quick, | |
| Thermometer temperature dips below seventy-six, | |
| That's what you get for telling niggas that you're better than 'Bis, | |
| Not possible, if I can't pronounce it, it ain't rhymable, | |
| The audible probability probably ain't probable, | |
| Supreme rap, G rap underground without a roof, | |
| Chopper proof, holding Hip Hop for hostage about to shoot, | |
| Helicopters stabilize at low altitudes, | |
| I'm talking to the negotiator laying out the rules, | |
| In a tight compromising loop, road blocked with troops, | |
| Under orders not to shoot but they break your vertebra with boots, | |
| Ten O'clock news flash, Bis and G Rap, | |
| All points bulletin looking for them niggas in black, | |
| Leaned back in an Avocado Eldorado, | |
| Passing the bottle, speaking Japanese like, 'No me mah show' | |
| She's got a baging body, cold sushi with warm saki, | |
| And if I'm rapping sloppy G's got me. | |
| (Kool G Rap) | |
| Welcome to my world, danger and hazards | |
| Gang of bastards, banging they ratchets | |
| King and the Jacker, slanging in traffic | |
| Claiming they cabbage, obtain half, they aiming for static | |
| Get brains from an addict, keep blinging with karats | |
| Cops see me in Maddox, then let ya dame have it, flames to the attic | |
| The stains on ya fabric, the paint in the graphic | |
| Canibus and G Rap, banging a classic | |
| And if that beef on the street - hate you enough, | |
| Blow out ya brain in your casket | |
| Don't you love this drug element? | |
| Where slugs crush your melanin dome | |
| Chrome that's known to break bones in an elephant | |
| Shotgun pellets and, gunsmoke; smell the scent | |
| Big bullets, wiggle your guts like gelatin | |
| Cut through your skeleton, knockage intelligence | |
| Ride, stand, and bite the dust | |
| Jake wanna be like a Russian cuffed on that Riker bus | |
| We raised in the slums, with haze in our lungs | |
| Raising the guns, knowing | |
| My day'll come, razors under the tongue | |
| Clips in the steel, bricks in the wheels, | |
| Chips in the field of fortune | |
| Dead men walking with hits on the grills | |
| Late night at the spot, posted with goons, dope and balloons | |
| Coke and the doom, scheme; | |
| I'll leave you open with wounds nigga | |
| Witness G Rap put it back in perspective | |
| Beat up shit with a dash of the peppers, get blast for ya necklace | |
| Leave ya brains on the dash in your Lexus | |
| We up in the club, dash for the exit | |
| Make ya spread 'em out - show you what this lead about | |
| Take it from an old thug, whoever clean cold blood | |
| Believe they bled it out (yo) | |
| Crave for the war, pop out rages with fours | |
| Hit the jackpot, blazing the raw - getting bands in the pores | |
| Bitches in draws with dick in their jaws | |
| The frame drank sick of Valour, straight bandit spot | |
| Open up shop, turn the block to 'Planet Rock' | |
| Shit with no chop, slept with the glock with the hammer cocked | |
| Serving the fiends, hop in the Suburban and lean | |
| Look at that don nigga swerving in Queens, player | |
| Balling a lot, brawling for props, calling the shots | |
| Hit the curb, birds all on the flock | |
| Jocking, like "who that there covered in all of them rocks" | |
| It's royalty bitch, fall on the cock, recognize one | |
| Giacanna G Rap, that live one - pay homage | |
| Get it fucked up, I spray comments, nigga what?! | |
| (Nigga what, it's the Curriculum! Mic Club) | |
| (Canibus) | |
| Anything is everything my nigga, | |
| I ain't bitter but if I give you the finger it'll be behind a trigger, | |
| Faggot ass nigga living in a gated community, | |
| Up at radio telling them what you're going to do to me, | |
| I live in the 'burbs, | |
| Clean my Winchester every other weekend with the same dirty Hanes shirt, | |
| It takes two to tango, three to jump rope, | |
| Four to bury the body plus look out for po', | |
| Yo, I guard everything within the limits of my post, | |
| My orders are to smoke you if you get too close, | |
| The whole globe is scared of my flow, | |
| Spirit world, scared of my soul, | |
| Nowadays it's like I'm scared to be known, | |
| The methods of my motivation is completely subjective, | |
| My perception is completely parallel to perspective, | |
| Rhyming is the reason I spit in faces, | |
| Habituation of my flamboyance without rational reservation, | |
| Whiskey, X-Ray, Yankee, Zulu, unusual, | |
| Wordologically my syllable position is beautiful, | |
| Only respect niggas if the feeling is mutual, | |
| G Rap snatched the jewels fom you, I'll throw them in the crucible, | |
| Probably throw you in it too, mix it up and make nigga stew, | |
| If you can't admit that I'm iller than you, | |
| Baby, you're sparring with the shadows, Canibus and G Rap flow, | |
| Motherfucker you're 'fessionalling with the Pros. | |
| (Kool G Rap) | |
| Know it's, dough over hoes - bankrolls, Rovers and clothes | |
| and shots blow all them cowards and foes | |
| Giacanna proud with the pros, foul mode | |
| We quick reachers, spear with the fearless til you drip liters | |
| Flip divas, the big secret, strip to they tits and beaver | |
| Sip Cris' and sniff coke of the peeter | |
| Yeah we ball big baby, look off the meter | |
| You should see us, it's movie star status | |
| Scar lackers lost cabbage, rip the Pablo Escobar fabrics | |
| Froze the road we chose, not a pretty route, Diddied out | |
| Grimey and grittied out, stack dough, jiggy out | |
| Dime bitches behavin like ya sex slave skizzied out | |
| Some nigga dizzy south, til he's out, busy mouth | |
| Swerve to the curb, hit the bird split the kitties out | |
| We kidnap for trap - blackmail for a gang a mill | |
| Spot banger himself, fishscale rocks under the fingernails | |
| The blood trail lead to a corpse | |
| Treat my appetite for greed with a torch | |
| For keys to a Porsche, to breeze in the loft | |
| Roll up my hand sheets with the force | |
| We squeeze off, no need for remorse, player | |
| Forty wild goons, we forty Calhouns | |
| You die forty foul dooms for forty coward moves | |
| Bless sparkle, and spark until my shorty style rules | |
| Giancanna dead? Widespread, I'll be a 40 mile tune nigga | |
| What, what nigga? The noble laureate | |
| Comin at y'all niggaz.. | |
| Uh.. 40-pound style nigga... |
| zuò cí : Williams, Wilson, Yan, Yan. D. | |
| Canibus | |
| Yo, the shotee rip, perforate the skin on top of your ribs, | |
| Red stuff comes out of squibs like a Hollywood script, | |
| Bitch niggas on the floor screaming for mommy and shit, | |
| Cardiologists hook up the heart monitors quick, | |
| Thermometer temperature dips below seventysix, | |
| That' s what you get for telling niggas that you' re better than ' Bis, | |
| Not possible, if I can' t pronounce it, it ain' t rhymable, | |
| The audible probability probably ain' t probable, | |
| Supreme rap, G rap underground without a roof, | |
| Chopper proof, holding Hip Hop for hostage about to shoot, | |
| Helicopters stabilize at low altitudes, | |
| I' m talking to the negotiator laying out the rules, | |
| In a tight compromising loop, road blocked with troops, | |
| Under orders not to shoot but they break your vertebra with boots, | |
| Ten O' clock news flash, Bis and G Rap, | |
| All points bulletin looking for them niggas in black, | |
| Leaned back in an Avocado Eldorado, | |
| Passing the bottle, speaking Japanese like, ' No me mah show' | |
| She' s got a baging body, cold sushi with warm saki, | |
| And if I' m rapping sloppy G' s got me. | |
| Kool G Rap | |
| Welcome to my world, danger and hazards | |
| Gang of bastards, banging they ratchets | |
| King and the Jacker, slanging in traffic | |
| Claiming they cabbage, obtain half, they aiming for static | |
| Get brains from an addict, keep blinging with karats | |
| Cops see me in Maddox, then let ya dame have it, flames to the attic | |
| The stains on ya fabric, the paint in the graphic | |
| Canibus and G Rap, banging a classic | |
| And if that beef on the street hate you enough, | |
| Blow out ya brain in your casket | |
| Don' t you love this drug element? | |
| Where slugs crush your melanin dome | |
| Chrome that' s known to break bones in an elephant | |
| Shotgun pellets and, gunsmoke smell the scent | |
| Big bullets, wiggle your guts like gelatin | |
| Cut through your skeleton, knockage intelligence | |
| Ride, stand, and bite the dust | |
| Jake wanna be like a Russian cuffed on that Riker bus | |
| We raised in the slums, with haze in our lungs | |
| Raising the guns, knowing | |
| My day' ll come, razors under the tongue | |
| Clips in the steel, bricks in the wheels, | |
| Chips in the field of fortune | |
| Dead men walking with hits on the grills | |
| Late night at the spot, posted with goons, dope and balloons | |
| Coke and the doom, scheme | |
| I' ll leave you open with wounds nigga | |
| Witness G Rap put it back in perspective | |
| Beat up shit with a dash of the peppers, get blast for ya necklace | |
| Leave ya brains on the dash in your Lexus | |
| We up in the club, dash for the exit | |
| Make ya spread ' em out show you what this lead about | |
| Take it from an old thug, whoever clean cold blood | |
| Believe they bled it out yo | |
| Crave for the war, pop out rages with fours | |
| Hit the jackpot, blazing the raw getting bands in the pores | |
| Bitches in draws with dick in their jaws | |
| The frame drank sick of Valour, straight bandit spot | |
| Open up shop, turn the block to ' Planet Rock' | |
| Shit with no chop, slept with the glock with the hammer cocked | |
| Serving the fiends, hop in the Suburban and lean | |
| Look at that don nigga swerving in Queens, player | |
| Balling a lot, brawling for props, calling the shots | |
| Hit the curb, birds all on the flock | |
| Jocking, like " who that there covered in all of them rocks" | |
| It' s royalty bitch, fall on the cock, recognize one | |
| Giacanna G Rap, that live one pay homage | |
| Get it fucked up, I spray comments, nigga what?! | |
| Nigga what, it' s the Curriculum! Mic Club | |
| Canibus | |
| Anything is everything my nigga, | |
| I ain' t bitter but if I give you the finger it' ll be behind a trigger, | |
| Faggot ass nigga living in a gated community, | |
| Up at radio telling them what you' re going to do to me, | |
| I live in the ' burbs, | |
| Clean my Winchester every other weekend with the same dirty Hanes shirt, | |
| It takes two to tango, three to jump rope, | |
| Four to bury the body plus look out for po', | |
| Yo, I guard everything within the limits of my post, | |
| My orders are to smoke you if you get too close, | |
| The whole globe is scared of my flow, | |
| Spirit world, scared of my soul, | |
| Nowadays it' s like I' m scared to be known, | |
| The methods of my motivation is completely subjective, | |
| My perception is completely parallel to perspective, | |
| Rhyming is the reason I spit in faces, | |
| Habituation of my flamboyance without rational reservation, | |
| Whiskey, XRay, Yankee, Zulu, unusual, | |
| Wordologically my syllable position is beautiful, | |
| Only respect niggas if the feeling is mutual, | |
| G Rap snatched the jewels fom you, I' ll throw them in the crucible, | |
| Probably throw you in it too, mix it up and make nigga stew, | |
| If you can' t admit that I' m iller than you, | |
| Baby, you' re sparring with the shadows, Canibus and G Rap flow, | |
| Motherfucker you' re ' fessionalling with the Pros. | |
| Kool G Rap | |
| Know it' s, dough over hoes bankrolls, Rovers and clothes | |
| and shots blow all them cowards and foes | |
| Giacanna proud with the pros, foul mode | |
| We quick reachers, spear with the fearless til you drip liters | |
| Flip divas, the big secret, strip to they tits and beaver | |
| Sip Cris' and sniff coke of the peeter | |
| Yeah we ball big baby, look off the meter | |
| You should see us, it' s movie star status | |
| Scar lackers lost cabbage, rip the Pablo Escobar fabrics | |
| Froze the road we chose, not a pretty route, Diddied out | |
| Grimey and grittied out, stack dough, jiggy out | |
| Dime bitches behavin like ya sex slave skizzied out | |
| Some nigga dizzy south, til he' s out, busy mouth | |
| Swerve to the curb, hit the bird split the kitties out | |
| We kidnap for trap blackmail for a gang a mill | |
| Spot banger himself, fishscale rocks under the fingernails | |
| The blood trail lead to a corpse | |
| Treat my appetite for greed with a torch | |
| For keys to a Porsche, to breeze in the loft | |
| Roll up my hand sheets with the force | |
| We squeeze off, no need for remorse, player | |
| Forty wild goons, we forty Calhouns | |
| You die forty foul dooms for forty coward moves | |
| Bless sparkle, and spark until my shorty style rules | |
| Giancanna dead? Widespread, I' ll be a 40 mile tune nigga | |
| What, what nigga? The noble laureate | |
| Comin at y' all niggaz.. | |
| Uh.. 40pound style nigga... |