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Back to the grill again, the grill again You need a posse the size of the Nazis to attack this |
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And you're more optomistic than the Sounds of Blackness |
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Flip lines that rip through the chest cavity |
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And I keep going and going just like an Energizer battery |
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Flattery will get you nowhere, unless it's the derriere |
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And that'll get you everywhere |
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Went to the flea market, was in the cark, parked it |
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Big fat blunts, if you got it then spark it |
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And with the fisticuffs came the fists |
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And you've joined Steven Segal on the Marked for Death hitlist |
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Went back to the 70's and brothers got on grants |
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Cause they can step to some sisters and say \"Slap me some skins\" |
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Honeydip, and take the squad to the teepee |
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Hit it off, smoke a cig, watch a little TV |
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And if there ain't no papes there's no show |
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I'll just chill and return to kick em in the grill |
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Bust a style while I do it, if you know it oh you knew it |
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If you knew it then you knew it, if I catch a punk chewin |
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Imma drop the flavor fluid on his head, yep I flew it |
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And like Aretha Franklin, your moms is jumping to it |
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So, so, so, where did you go, what do ya know |
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SO many people want to be fly like Joe |
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G.I., E.I., oh lots and lots |
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And rapper can top the Red Hot (Not!) |
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R&B rips hip-hop (Not!) |
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MC Serch is gonna flip-flop (Not!) |
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All my hoes look like sasquatch (Not!) |
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And George Bush gets nuff props |
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Well, anyway, Imma slay slay lay |
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Pull a hoe around my way and make hooker souffle |
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Red Hot Lover Tone would like to thank MC Serch |
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Yo, you're chill for making me a part of history |
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Kicking em in the grill |
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Finesse, keep a Tech-9 in my dresser |
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Lyrical professor, keep you under pressure |
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Mind like a computer, the inserter |
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Paragraphs of murder, the nightclub flirter |
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This is Nas, kid, you know how it runs |
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I'm waving automatic guns at nuns |
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Sticking up the preachers in the church, I'm a stone crook |
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Serial killer, who works by the phone book |
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For you I got a lot to shoot my songs in here |
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My rhymes are hotter than a prostitute with ghonnerea |
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On the mic I let vocabulary spill |
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(It's like that y'all) That y'all, kick em in the grill |
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The Chubbsta breaks? stabbabi? fakes, steady rate h |
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The panty mix the verse, looks to Serch, kick him in the grill again, sequel of \"The Dialect, The Derelect\" |
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The murder licks, Vanilla kicks alive on the crucifix |
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Coming around the mountain, when he comes to sell more record bums |
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Digest the lyrics then you suck on some Tums |
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Crumbs with the energy from the lump sums |
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And lips to to the mixture to the friction and then you're |
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Hummmmmmming, the door rings, yo I'm coming |
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To a theater near you, get your popcorn and your brew |
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And a Guiness Stout, check the clout when I'm about |
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Cause YOU are a BLABBERMOUTH |
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A blabber, it gets no badder |
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Lyrics on a diet cause it gets no fatter |
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Like a Gewn to the Guthrien, jumping up on the scene |
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With the Serches with the verses |
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Word up, the illustrious |
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Rapper dapper sapper, you want us to sell out your wish |
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My lips have never touched the circumference of a spliff |
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And if you see some Coke or some spill |
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With some ill pill, yo kick me in the grill grill |
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So here's a true and false, tell me if it's factable |
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You wanna kill the Klan, shoot the fans a tractor pull |
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Got crazy game, so no one can stop me |
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But ayo, I'm white, I guess my game is hockey |
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Or basketball, football, taking papes in poker |
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If honeydip got a moneyclip I'm gonna stroke her |
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Wait a minute, chill chill, can't swing |
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Cause my girl ain't my girl no more, now she got a ring |
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Respect my wisdom like I respect myself |
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To to G I'll put you in a tree like the Keebler elves |
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You couldn't be The Mack if you had the car, the hat, the hoe |
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And your shit would still be out the back like a patio |
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Cause I saw you eating pig knuckles, with Frankie Knuckles |
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In a bar called Chuckles wearing name plate belt buckles |
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Goddamn your life is flimsy |
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Gave you nuff respect, but gave it back cause I was stingy |
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So from the cons and pros to the pros and the cons |
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Call me a motherfucker I'll say \"Yeah I fucked your moms\" |
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Until she calls back I'm gonna chill |
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Peace to Red Hot Lover Tone, Chubb Rock, kick em in the grill |
