Correction Paroles Choice FM 96.9: Friday Nite Flavas - 2Face (A-Butta & L-Swift), Big Kwam, Tru, & Delirious Freestyle in 1996 par Delirious

Featuring(s) : , Big Kwam, Tru, & Delirious Freestyle in 1996

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DJ 279 ft. 2Face (A-Butta &amp; L-Swift), Big Kwam, Tru, and Delirious - “Choice FM 96.9: Friday Nite Flavas - 2Face (A-Butta &amp; L-Swift), Big Kwam, Tru, and Delirious Freestyle in 1996”

L-Swift: “Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey,” hahahaha
A-Butta: Yeah, son, I’m feeling this joint
L-Swift: So how y’all feeling?
A-Butta: Word up
L-Swift: Yo, A, man
A-Butta: London in the house, y’all, Choice 96.9, one time
L-Swift: Yo, we’re gonna hit you with some of that New York flavor
A-Butta: Whoo!  Sup, L?  You ready?
L-Swift: Yo
A-Butta: Do your thing, kid
L-Swift: Let me see.  I got to vibe.  Ha, check it.  Uh, uh, yo, yo

These lyrics be on some whatever sh*t.  Natural Elements got
Your heart with bangers and Beretta clips.  How you setting it?  Ayyo
Lyrically blessing it, my hand sparks—that’s when the jam starts
I’m leaving landmarks on n***as like the Milli’ Man March.  I slams
Like my man Starks, throwing fear in you and your man heart
Like burglars, used to bag b*t*hes up near Ursula, and had
Them hoes sitting on a n***a wood like furniture.  Verbally
Burning ya with circular style like calligraphy, lyrics be
Liquidy when we perform lyrical wizardry.  Yo, no diggedy
Physically, n***as of my stature can’t fail.  You got
The smarts of Dan Quayle, I work wonders with Champell’.  You can’t
See me and L-Swift, so teach your hand to understand braille
Flipping the mic—right—coming through like fan mail.  Yo, messing
With me is risky like cocaine-crack hand-to-hand sales, electrify
Like track rails.  Uh, some n***as act frail, ayyo, they rap stale
Rougher than bad jails, get extorted or blackmailed.  Lyrics be
So dope, they measure our skills on gram scales, the sweet
Lyrics be dripping rapidly and leaving ant trails, but, L
This ain’t no picnic.  Yo, check the slick sh*t, nasty like
Porno flick chicks with thick tits, splitting lyrics like slit wrists.  I gets
More green than b*t*hes with syphilis p*ss gets.  Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, yo, with
The quickness, we bless this sh*t like bishops and flip
Scripts—from where, kid?—Fortress abyss, kid, so dig this, huh
It’s L and A like that every day.  Check it, yo

I make you forfeit
Like four-fifth, my crew fortifies
The Fortress, causing static like a cordless phone
Off-the-dome, I gets hot like the sauce gets
I hit skins and sport Timbs made out of Gore-Tex, plus
I grab the mic and start busting often.  Emcees
I’m dusting/Dustin like Hoffman, something to bump up in your Walkman.  Lyrically
I’m scorching, so take precaution when I’m talking
I flow like the north winds, cause distortions like abortions
n***as is ass-out-thick like porno flick endorsements

Of course it’s the
Style-finesser, lady-fly-undresser
Quickest to grab a Olde E, lyrically test ya when I bless ya
Like Websters, I got vocab for your ass, I let
My fo’-fo’ blast like po’-po’ stash.  Your sh*t’s irrelevant
Like stripping hoes who don’t show no ass at nightclubs
My mic shine like thousand-watt lightbulbs, I make
A mic budge, I’m hitting hoes without no fight gloves, so peep it
I get the deep buzz for when I’m speaking, I sip
A quart of Seagram’s so I could see my world end, I got
Your girlfriend stuck just like I used to do for shearlings, gots to
Whip a Sterling.  My crew be breaking down, you’ll fall like Berlin
What?

Uh huh, I close your show like this, yo, son.  I close
Your show like curtains, flows be working like overtime, A-Butta
Controls your mind, foul like hitting below the line, my soul’s divine
I hold a nine, make mentals reciprocate the way
We verbally articulate, many manipulate, lyrics
Precipitate, divine minds shine like nickel-plates.  It’s A-Butta
(And L-Swift) making brain cells disintegrate, so check this
I grab the mic and swing like tennis rackets, I play emcees
Like Perry Ellis jackets and say a whole sentence backwards
Emcee dopest the be I—that means I be the dopest
Emcee—(why?)—I’m thick like sweet thighs in knee-highs
Sparkle like green eyes, be sharper than three knives, so f**k
A Peace Prize.  I’m mentally letting the heat rise.  Butta and Swift
Be getting slicker than n***as with three wives.  I want pockets
With creampies, canines tighter than Levis
Emcees we despise, most of these guys we demise
Repping the East Side until the day that we die.  n***as be fake
Like imitation 1-2-5 FILA sweatshirts
The expert who make you bop your head until your neck hurt
I spit lyrics while n***as let the TEC squirt, I make
Your intellect irk when I shoot skills like Shawn Respert
I let the paper stack like secretary deskwork

I’m coming off
Like project hoes’ GUESS skirts, I do my best work
When I gets twisted.  Son, I gots you lifted like holy spirits
In a chapel during Christmas, I preach a lyric—forget a bible
I treat audiences like disciples, living off
Survival instincts, my ink sinks and life becomes a mystery
(Like what?)—like human existence.  I keep it long-distance
Like a phone line, I flash a chrome nine and sip a cold wine
And reminisce of old times, I warn emcees like
Post signs, divide the world like coastlines.  I used to smoke dimes
Now I caress, hold and control dimes.  I’m trying to wait for showtime
But all I vision through my eyes is more crime, so, yo
Bring in the flow rhyme ‘cause I could hold mine, so bring it on

Ayyo, it be
The Element young bucks—(say what?  My gun busts—you care?)
I don’t give one f**k.  (I swing a style like Bruce Lee with some nunchucks)
I destroy the galaxy like when the Sun busts.  (Yo, you can’t take)
(Nothing from us, we run this game like a head coach).  I’m trying to
Make this bread loaf.  (Yo, I keep my infrared close, stay underground)
(Like dead folks, I say lyrics ‘til I get strep throat).  “Where you from?”
I’m from New York, but I don’t sport a Mets coat.  I got
A North Face, avoid a court case, I leave a chalk trace
Messing with me with lyrics on corners the wrong place.  (I got girls)
(In four states, go back-to-back like Michael Jackson tour dates)
(I run game like a marathon New York race.  I need some room)
(To breathe, so f**k a small space.  I bust a nut in a whore face)
(You’ll get your jaw laced, yo.  I’m out of this world like n***as)
(Who explore space).  Like Biggie Smalls, you lost Faith, so get on your knees
And pray for the Lord’s grace.  You’s a lost case.  (I know you rich)
Nah, I live in a poor place until I get some more papes
(b*t*hes provide for us), they live and die for us, (yo, they laugh and)
(Cry for us).  I whip a GS.  (Motherf**ker, you ride the bus).  Yo, why you
Lying, cuz?  (Yo, stick to this rhyme sh*t, n***as).  Brothers be trying us
(I make your mind flip and your spine split like slugs from a nine clip)
(I design sh*t).  I be on the low like Mafioso crime hits
In Sicily, organized like a symphony, showing no
Sympathy.  Lyrically, I’m a mystery just like the Blesséd
Trinity—what?  (Ayyo, officially, my crew’s bugged.  I got)
(Your heart like true love, I’m busting tool slugs, and “Hemlock” n***as)
(Like Mr. Voo does).  Yo, we a pair like two gloves, we got you hooked
Like new drugs until your veins pop, I make your brain rot
(Ayyo, check it.  241st my train stop.  I wet a mic)
(Like raindrops, we share the same Glock), so “Check Da Style”
(You still ain’t that ill.  I maintains like a janitor)
(My style’s illegal like my cable box with a scrambler.  Ayyo)
(I rule the new school like a chancellor).  You couldn’t see us with you
Canon camera.  Cooler than Canada…

L-Swift: Yo, A, A, A
A-Butta: What’s up?  Let’s go.  What…
L-Swift: A, A, A, what we gotta do, son?  We gots to blow the…

Ayyo, let’s freestyle off the top of the mind
‘Cause I’m your top Choice like 96.9, I be divine
When my brother Tru, what we gonna do?  We got Big Kwam
Study Catholic or Islam, I’ma hit you with bombs.  (Ayyo, I got)
(Hoes, um, on the 279th Avenue)
(I be grabbing crews, I be halving you, stabbing you)
(With my man Julian, I bust the toolie, and)
(L-Swift, I’m coming through, you couldn’t remove, and)
(I’m... )  You couldn’t remove me, and
‘Cause I got the Flava, yo, I take you on a Blindside
Like The Creators, blowing up just like my pager, renegade
Of Flava, I got my man, uh, on the DJ
Replay.  Emcees, yo, y’all do what we say.  (I don’t care what)
(He say.  L-Swift, yo, I be the man at hand)
(Um, your girl I’ll give continuous jams like)
(London Soul Power ‘cause I hold power in my hand)
(And be the hundred-grand, the wonder man, so understand)
(I be looking at everybody in the studio)
(You got the Twins hat like Minnesota ‘cause I got… gotta)
(Drink the soda when I’m, um, tripping off the Hennessey)
(I fly your head from New York to Tennessee to England).  Ayyo
Tennessee remember me.  Ayyo, you… I wreck fags
I get on the mic, I’m kind of tired ‘cause I got jetlag.  We just
Came from New York.  I grab the microphone like a two-sport, puffing
Emcees, but they don’t sell Newports out here.  Yo, what’s the deal?  (Ayyo, I)
(Wreck crimes any time, I connect dimes.  Ayyo)
(My man, you’re gonna get them records next time because)
(Yo, you’re gonna call up for the Voo plus the L.  I Excel)
(Like Hyundai the one way.  I’m in the house like Uncle L)
(On Mondays on Channel Flow in New York, I crew-stalk)
(You said we can’t buy the Newports, but F it.  Um)
(I gets down, I be hectic, got Man like Method.  n***as)
(Know the style ‘cause I inject it when I intercept it—what?)  Yo, you incept it
I disconnect it when I kick it like Bruce Lee.  I be kicking
More rhymes than my Juli’ and be smoking loosies.  You be
Sc*m, tooken when I go down.  Biggie like “Juicy,” grab the
Microphone, so what you got for me?  Nothing, you’re fronting, constantly pumping.  (Ayyo, I)
(Bring the flavor like The Creators, I be Major like Lee)
(I got your city under siege, you say, “Please, oh, Jesus”)
(I grabs a microphone—watch me bust)
(I grabs a microphone and emcees wanna see.  Um)
(It be L-S-W-I-to-the-F-to-the-T)
(Um, I want my picture out on that wall with Brandy)
(You don’t understand me.  I eat candy any)
(Time I rhyme.  n***as know the style.  You wanna bend me, but you can’t…)  I blow your mind
You know the “Time” like Redman.  I do a Def Jam
I’ll make you sweat like a headband when I expand, my flows
Continuous jams like London Soul Power every
Hour.  Yo, I haven’t, um, tooken a shower ‘cause I’ve been in
The studio all night and all day.  My forte: I wreck rhymes
In the project hallways for four days.  Yo.  (Ayyo, ayyo)
(I get down the crew.  I understand 279)
(Don’t like Hot 97 too, so check it.  Um)
(Any time I flow off the mind, I could wreck it ‘cause)
(I intercept it any time I flex it.  Looking)
(At the tango, I eats your ass like a mango, I)
(Grabs a microphone and hang flows.  Ayyo, I be up in)
(The studio in England, my balls be dangling)
(When I be, um, getting down—check the single, and, um).  Yo, check
The way that we’re swinging as our flows start to disperse.  I love this
Radio station, it feel good to curse, you know’m saying?  ‘Cause, yo
I blow up the microphone like that when I write raps
I shine like gold caps, my soul catch my flow raps, I got dope raps
Off of the top of the mental on this Creator instrumental
Like P.M. Dawn, I send you.  I recommend you don’t test me and
L-Swift ‘cause we be the illest on the underground, dumping sounds
In the surrounding—catch your ass a beat-down.  We sweep now.  (Ayyo)
(I be on some rough sh*t.  Check the way I touch it)
(I want some girls in England if they suck d**k, so hey)
(Um, if they wanna get with me, I be that)
(Physical, mystical type of ill emcee.  Hey)
(I know you can’t say, um, D-I-C-K on the radio)
(So I spell it.  Lyrically, I excel it)
(So we gonna dwell it like n***as know the time, so)
(My man, A-Butta, come on the mic, one more rhyme—what?)  Ayyo
I come with the “one more rhyme,” puff it like ganja
Like Jeffrey Dahmer, I Bond ya like London, no fronting
I keep the crowd jumping and pumping, it’s like that.  Off-the-top
How we rock the spot.  I hold a Glock like Robocop, aha
I’m bugging out, I got dough a lot, but, yo, I…
I haven’t transformed my money into pounds, I get down from Uptown
You get bogged down and shut down.  What up now, L-Swift?  We gets
Lyrically equipped with this freestyle sh*t.  I’m just saying… (Ayyo)
(I’m hungry and I’m funky ‘cause I need a bath)
(My main A-Butta in the left, he starts to laugh, but hey)
(It’s kind of, um, not funny anymore because)
(I’m smelling raw, um, n***as know The Score, um)
(Just like I’m the Fugees.  b*t*hes wanna do me)
(I come through, I’m like paint—you can’t remove me off the surface)
(Um, emcees be getting nervous when they purchase my tape)
(L-Swift, um, I never tried to rape the hoes).  Like Alexander
I’m Great, I grab the microphone, you can’t wait
To get it on—let it be on like that.  I’m dropping bombs like, um, London
Terrorist, I’m wrecking this microphone, I’m blessing this mic
Like a preacher, blowing up like celly beepers.  Yo, it’s kind of
Funny how I be causing mass hysteria.  Yo
How the hell everybody in London got a cellular?  I don’t know, so I flow
The microphone keeps on blowing up, I’m showing up, haha
We’re just bugging out like that off-the-top

L-Swift: Ayyo, yeah, yeah
A-Butta: Word up
DJ 279: Alright, let’s… just let me switch this beat up, alright?
L-Swift: Aww, yeah, yeah, yeah
DJ 279: So I know everyone wants to get a piece
A-Butta: Aight
L-Swift: Oh, you got a Creators beat, man, you’re gonna hit me with?  You’re gonna hit me with?
DJ 279: We got some Creators beats and stuff.  Yeah, there’s enough for us
A-Butta: Aight
L-Swift: Whoo?  We can freak this?
DJ 279: Yep
L-Swift: Oh my God, I’ma zone right now.  I’ma zone, I’ma zone.  A, haha
A-Butta: Yo, we’re gonna zone
L-Swift: I’ma zone, zone.  Ha
A-Butta: One more time

Check the
Um, ill Creators flavor, Dutch or data
L-Swift be coming through, I be just major like
My pager, um, when I be changing, rearranging it
L-Swift, I bust a nut in a girl’s face when she be
Trying to be replacing it.  When I be talking, he be
Drinking Coca Cola Diet.  I cause a Riot like LA
Um, emcees smell gay when they be walking, um
L-Swift be talking and stalking through New York, and, so
My man, A-Butta, where you at with the raps?  We got the
Ill Creators beats, you contact like combat, so what?  (I contact)
(Like combats, I bomb raps right off the mind.  Right now)
(I think it’s about 6:20 New York time.  I grab the)
(Microphone, I kick it wicked.  It’s 11:20)
(When I represent the microphone rhymes, I got plenty.  Trying to send me… ayyo…)  Ayyo
Check the way I’m swinging, um, plus the style I’m bringing, um
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed just like the wheels in
England cars.  Check the way ‘cause I be the star.  L-Swift
Is coming through, I be the czar, and, baby pa, you could
Never test ‘cause I be the best, I Finesse like Lord
L-Swift, hah, I never been a fraud, um
I be with my hoard, um, I’m liquored in the studio
With the 8-tracks.  L-Swift, I never date fat
Haaaa, vicious, I hit the switches, um
I be getting riches, throwing you in ditches, so my man
Um, where you at?  (Big Kwam, get on the microphone and drop bombs)

DJ 279: Big Kwam, step up front
A-Butta: No diggedy
DJ 279: Step up front.  Mr. Big Kwam will scatter then
Big Kwam: No doubt, no doubt, one love to my man L-Swift, A-Butta, nah’m saying?  It’s like it.  London Tower
DJ 279: Bless us, man, bless us
Big Kwam: Word up, word up, money.  You know how I do.  Big Kwam, check it out now.  Yo

f**k what you heard.  The n***a target herbs with all the hardest words
I scar you nerds with razor cuts that all the ducks deserve
My mental composite’ll leave your armor split, the chromes’ll jizz
So call it quits.  My vocals have your cabbage blown to bits
My sounds waves’ll turn a town to slaves, mounds amazed
I’m down to stage a challenge, strip titles, and set the crown ablaze
Disassemble brittle spines and resemble nickel nines
When I rhyme, you’re inclined to hit the tape rewind
The po’-nine-duster shine like diamond clusters, d**k the twat
Pelvic thruster recognized as a hustler
Gold-plated tables with scrolls and magic unfold tragic
Tales of the frail who was bashed, stoned in battle, so, uh
Analyze and realize the fact my streetwise attack
Will reveal that your style’s wack—what?

Big Kwam: Yo, my man L-Swift.  Check it out
L-Swift: Yo, I’ma hit with more.  A written joint.  Check it, check it, uh, yo

Yo, who them kids up your
Situation?  Run up in your spot, no invitation.  Me and
A-Butta, uh, go back like car seats and snatch your life
In a heartbeat.  No limitation, you know we’re the bomb.  I gets deep
As the holy Quran, you’re phony as psalms, so when I’m lifted
Still, I could shift it, young, black, and gifted.  What’s my name?
L-Swift, kid.  Lyrically, I Excel like Hyundai
It’s like driving the opposite direction down the one-way
Natural Elements in the house like Uncle L on Mondays
I plays a corny rapper like SEGA Saturn, been
Around the streets so many days, I’m starting to make a pattern, so
My man, get on the microphone, one, two, and
Represent for the London and the English Creator crew

Uh huh.  Word.  Check it out, check it out

I got
A rapport with weed spots and liquor stores, my mind
State be tore out the doorframe and more
Bars remain critical, link verbal to visuals
Smoked-out individual blessed by herbal rituals
Kwam be the one-man army, sipping Dom P, and Twan?
He put the essence of an emcee upon me
Armed with the blueprint, I do dent your two-cent raps
They need improvement.  The chocolate got my crew bent
I’m trailblazing, brain-grazing, and hell-raising
My mood swings like clubs from schizophrenic cavemen
I can’t be snuffed, bum-rushed, or handcuffed
When this man puff, he drop rhymes like dandruff
Fronting theatrics get slapped quick with rap hits
That leave backs split and clap sh*t just like gat clips
I’m all that plus chips and all that other good sh*t
Intricate like Arabic script written in toothpicks, cliques
Under bombardment, the sergeant—what?—with a squadrant
Brining papers like Charmin, I’m harming
The frail, knock the wind out your sails, wings clipped
Like nails when I wait to exhale the Holy Grail
I lamp on the meridian with a billion
Adaptable styles reminiscent of amphibians
It ain’t hard to get your retard squad charged up for
Three bars.  Believe me, god, I could pull your card
At will.  The facts still remain my contacts real
Wax and seal, emcees decompose in the Catskills

Big Kwam: Word up, so yeah, yeah.  Bless ‘em, son, bless ‘em, waste ‘em, waste ‘em, waste ‘em
L-Swift: Uh, uh, uh, uh, yo, ayyo, check it, yo

Pass the mic, you never get that sh*t back.  I flips tracks, b*t*hes
Tell me my d**k’s fat, covered in black like a KitKat
Fresher than tic-tacs, relax and kick back, I smoke Lincolns
And never lick cats, I flip tracks just like a four-fifth cap
But, in fact, I be supreme like pizza from
Domino’s, I’m bombing foes, burn ‘em like no-condom hoes
I conjure flows like holy spirits
b*t*hes throw me digits.  Riches?  Only flip it, so
Swift, yo, check it.  I always come equipped with
Heavy ammunition so I don’t have to flip, I freak
A style like lewd shows and hit you with these new flows like them
Jiggy brothers be sporting new clothes, even your crew knows
My style switch up like Knicks coaches, L-Swift focus
Like camera lenses ‘cause I damage and bend sh*t, my
Flows be endless like number lines, I run the rhyme
Natural Elements be hot like summertime in New York, my crew stalk
I numb your mind like new thoughts, so find a new sport
I play your trick like Too Short, I got you hooked like Newports
Natural Elements crew thoughts, so hey, what we gotta say
My man Big Kwam ‘cause he got it on the way—what?

True indeed, true indeed, true indeed, yo

The platinum-selling rap legend that hit your melon
Thoughts compelling, weed-inhaling, verbal rebellion
Kwam be extra abrasive to your texture
Ill scheme, to-root connector wrecking your sector—what?
I stay fresh-dipped, the life-or-death script
My vocal clefts rip collarbones and hips if you slip
Got styles you couldn’t figure yet, intrigue like
Naked silhouettes behind mosquito nets—you feel me yet? (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
God damn it, buddha’d eyes be chinky-slanted
Hard as granite, shatter your rhyme made of ceramics
While you slept in hammocks, my vocal aerodynamics
Ran through your barracks, shining like 24-carats
Lyrically speaking, my heat-seeking shot repeating
c*cked to rock weaklings when dropped on block meetings
It’s a fact I twist backs, spliffs from stacks
Limp wrists will crack with this swift gift I pack, yo
The pain-inflicter burning n***as ‘til they blister—what?
Big Kwam quick to hit your sister
With my man Tru.  What you gonna do, baby pa?
What you gonna do?  Bless ‘em with a bar

Yo.  Awwww yeah, check it out now.  Check it out, come here.  Check it out

Hold a second, wait a minute.  Yes, you know I gots ta
Grab the microphone and make like I’m Rasta
Do the knots-and-dread hip hop, yes, and nod your head
Smoke it like a spliff for tonight, shot my eye damn red
I used to play like that Ginger, ring your bell and run
But now, I’m busting at lyrics like Chuck’s “Uzi that Weigh a Ton.”  Check this out
Back it up now.  Yes, the Tru is here
Knocking out the kind of lyrics that’ll bring an emcee out in tears
My freestyle was moving like a freak in a porno movie, I’m the doctor
At this sh*t like that little kid Doogie
Howser, bound to mouth the style I flaunt too
Like an exhibitionist, you better get ready to listen to this
Look in more time when I’m fake to this like a b*t*h at home in her bedroom, lining her bed
With a big, fat dildo, rubbing her clitoris
I’m king at this, ain’t gonna miss.  n***as, just listen to this
I’m fly on sh*t like chrysalis.  Your b*t*h?  She miss my verbal bliss
You wish your sh*t could flip like this, but, no, I don’t
Think so.  Yo, I have to go.  Who’s next?

A-Butta: Hahahaha, word up.  Yo, A-Butta one last time will blast your mind.  You’re getting on, son?
Delirious: Word
A-Butta: Aight, aight, check it out, yo
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Hey, microphone keep cutting out, man.  Yo, yo, yo, yo, well, yo, I…
A-Butta: Yo, he ‘bout to kick his sh*t first
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Y’all could… yeah
DJ 279: Who has the lyrics, man?
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Alright
Delirious: Let’s… starting the beat a little, you know, you nah’mean?  Alright, basically, I’m just gonna go back to the sneak-it-out.  Silk shirts and crocodile shoes, you know what I mean?  Alright, let’s go for something.  Fake emcees.  Something… (*Instrumental cuts*)
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Aaah, what’s the next, what’s the next thing?
Delirious: Y’all caught me, man, y’all caught me on camera
DJ 279: Alright, let me, let me take a break, right?  Let me see what we’re doing
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Nah, what’s the next thing, man?
DJ 279: (*Instrumental starts*) Do your thing, man
Delirious: Yeah, yeah, yeah, wait a minute, wait a minute.  Gonna go back in the days and take it like, you know… I mean, watch this
DJ 279: Alright
Delirious: Yeah
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Kick your facts first
Delirious: LV, LV, watch out

The big talk
Is all you got, but when the right time come, I see no
Action (Action), overreacting (-reacting).  All dem-a
Talk ‘bout this, all dem-a talk ‘bout that will never
Happen because dem too follow fashion
Can’t test the flavor.  Wicked, I’m a danger
Spin upon your headlights, it just like if he was a breaker
The lyrics are fi takeover, bona fide microphone smoker
Emcee the doobity oaker, only fi look over your shoulder
So give me the real deal, the raw, the rugged
Original UK style, the lyrics are the ducket
Like this.  Who the best?  It’s me, the buddha-head
Rhymes are triggered further as infrared.  Here’s your dread
Gets the J-O-B D-O-N, sip on the Rem’
Puff up a spliff, maybe a blunt
Whatever.  Styles are clever.  E-Tru the off-
-beat starter.  Check it out, ahhh

Check, check it out, uh

Red cracks due to stress.  Where’s my pillow?  Life is
Rougher than a grill, I felt it crash into a willow
Then ending ‘cause ain’t nothing splendid recommended
n***as doing timbers just to stay limp, packs of limps simp
On lifestyles of a b*t*h’s anus.  Might suck
Your d**k for some trainers, pop her cherry if you’re famous
Then laters.  I got to shake ‘cause I don’t caters
Grace beyond some capers, playing n***as like old SEGAs
And that’s the way it goes when you play with those
Brown-eyed tricks, round with eyelids.  They have
Kids, plating, knock down Ginger, now they
Knock down Ginger, take his money, then they enter
The arcade—that’s the way they get paid and play
So here’s a craze, but I’m not here to praise
The way we live.  We take heaps, stay as we may, hah
But it’s OK ‘cause it’s just, just another day

Jungle-dweller dwelling deep in the cellar
Exposing ya like David Miller
Lunatic, lyrical assassin.  Acknowledge
The North Side, blow mad wattage
Dispel the ignorant brother, fake rhymer
With the IQ of a mountain-climber
I maintain longevity in the industry
Talking ‘bout delivery, you ain’t as ill as me
I took your spot, secured it, locked it down tight
Make sure it sound right.  Yes, I
Proceed with flavor ‘cause that’s all I got
And it’s only right I blow up the spot
And take care of business, knock you off the hit-list
Butter like a biscuit, bust the ballistic
Boom to the b*st*rd, bomb to the crotch
And the nine cripple, got you jumping off, pull on it

Bring back that beat, man!  That was… check it.  From the top, from the top, yeah.  So check it out, uh.  So check it out.  Uh, so check it out, yo

Feel the heat when I’m all up inside you
I’m talking girlies side and some… gliders do
Press up like a PE instructor.  You self-destruct
With the way that I… struck down her boobies
Rubbed her up on her coochie.  They love it when you
Treat ‘em like floozies, so do me, do me once
Do me twice, let me take this test flight.  I keep it up
Through the night, you’ll be reaching new height of ecstasy
Next to me, sex is like chess to me
A mental game where the winner takes all.  Lick my…
And I fall in lust with the size of your bust
Hitting from behind is a must, and I trust
You love the freaky, leaky things that we get
Into, where a n***a dare you to see through
And I believe we’ll keep it sweet like tree goo
Caress and just tease.  Go down, and I’ll feed you
Head’s something nice just like sugar and spice
Hard to the touch, and I’ma f**k you so much, pull it out
And get freaky, do you straight before brunch
Nice and just easy, there’s no need for us to rush, it’s just…

I break down the bed, bust a nut like lead
My d**k’s well-fed ‘cause plenty honeys give me head
I’ll last longer than a Duracell battery
Girls come to me for the pleasure and the agony
Backbone stamina make a woman happier
Waking up your neighbors any time I’m slamming ya
No foreplay—it’s not the forte
I roll the raw way, I angle all day
This ain’t R&amp;B, so I’ma tell you straight
That if you look good, I want sex ‘pon first date
And when I get it, I wet it, I set it
Like this, pushing up my wood between your tits
Sixty-nine or thirty-four-and-a-half
‘Cause you can suck the wood ‘til it… uh
Go all soft

Delirious: Hahaha, ah!
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Check it out now, check it out now, check it out now
Delirious: Aight, aight, let me come in now, let me come in, let me come in, let me come in.  Aight, back on some sleeze, you nah’mean?  Yeah, Francine, if you’re on… you nah’mean?  But… nah’mean?  That’s my sister, my sister.  Francine and Gwen family there.  Alright, here we go
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Yeah, big up to… my little, my little baby daughter

Sticking my d**k
In a gold-digger, you get no loot
No matter how cute or how good the boots
I think you better step ‘cause I ain’t trying to hear that
And you can stop the crying like I sprayed your face with teargas
Not from the West Coast, but really though
I work your body harder than a Jane Fonda video
Like a cowboy in a rodeo, “Hi-De-Hi-De-Hi
Ho-De-Ho-De-Ho,” I’m buckwild, and now you know
The beat go (*Beatboxing*)
I never miss the beat because I got a good technique
Bundle loot with honeys away from the fellas
You heard that I was wolfing your woman and now you’re jealous
I don’t beg like TLC, water ‘em down with the old pee-pee
Don’t want to catch the HIV, syphilis on to the V to the D
I like it freaky but I’m not into the bondage
You wanna whoop my ass, tie me up like a hostage, you’re mad
Scoping—how could you even ask that?
I had to dump this girl because she wanted to lick my ass-crack
Ughhh!  I think out past and find the next.  You must be
Ready to vet, so don’t you’re tonight to have sex
Wine, romance, music, and a slow dance
Skilled in the dance, they’re looking me like, “I ain’t got no chance”
It could be heaven to or even very better
I rubbed down her bumper, “BOOM!” like Fanta
No hoes and b*t*hes, just the goddesses
They’s the one that stresses wearing the tight dresses
Don’t like ‘em anorexic, I like ‘em ripe like
Fruits in jumpsuits, I knock their boots

Tru (AKA E-Tru): Yeah, aight, so check it out, uh.  So check it out, so check it, uh.  I crucify… bring back the mean rap
Delirious: Bring it back, bring it back.  Come now
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Check it

I crucify beats like black Nazarenes, send
Shivers down spleens “by any means” like X
Flex, you study.  Skills are on-par like buddies
Forever more, I abhor these pansy, bourgeois
n***as in Tommy Hilfigers like they’re from Queens
They don’t figure—therefore, I don’t dig ya
Let’s go back to the days of jeans and black leather
Jacks, before goose downs and Hensons. We make this go back
Bensons, scheming on trains, snatching chains
Smoking the ‘caine with the doo-doo with policies darker
Than voodoo, scheming you coons like Twinkie and LuLu
Running ‘round wild and reckless
The young and the restless rushing doors—f**k the guest-list
’87 to ’88, old n***as can’t
Relate to the softest bad-boy dramas
We never popped Glocks or talked in East Coast slang
Ayyo, this beat sounds funny but it’s my…

Delirious: Uh, check it out, check it out, check it out
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Check it, uh

All emcees, put the mic down slow, freeze, empty your pockets
My skills pump knowledge, easily break up your concepts, yo
‘Cause I be the brother who be hot like the Caribbean
Brother, your style need to be reborn on just like a Christian
‘Cause then the nine cripple big tings, a fi gwan, nobody has that
Plus I got the flow that even carbon couldn’t copy
They call me the naughty one planning the fall of Babylon
Who needs guns when you got nuclear and atomic bombs?
I burn emcees third-degree, often stay cautious
My flow is awesome, break ‘em up often, put ‘em in coffins
The swift-talking, futuristic emcee, so tell Amanda
Not to grab me ‘cause I’ll be throwing temper tantrums
And then I slam them like sumo wrestling or judo
Blacken your eye, making you wear Versace, even Kool Moes
So on and on to the breaker, 1, 9, mayday
When I bust the/Busta Rhymes—hey!  (Hey!)  Hey!  (Woo-Hah!!)

Hey!  We’re out

This never seem to rest.  Perhaps you
Feel for something just a little more real, indeed
I get you high like weed, suffice to say, my rhymes
Are paved away to a better day for this
Renegade.  Peace to my n***a Che
And all my other n***as from around my way because
Cards and tricks are fix just for kicks, it makes
Me sick picking up my benefits, so I
Flex my pecs, down my Beck’s, cash my checks
Create a ruckus, and then have mad sex
Yeah, yeah, you heard of this before, but I’m
Coming just a little more raw like Sodom or…
‘Cause my life ain’t nothing but weed smoke
Choke my throat and coke until my pockets broke
Hit the streets and graff, have a laugh
Police harass but they can all f**k off
The year’s ’95, but, like the Bee Gees, I’ma “Stay Alive”
And well, living in this type of hell, just
Stay in apparel, fresh out of jail, on a…
Some are honey-dating, someone’s gonna constipate

Delirious: Uh, we’re the life of the money.  Watch this
Tru (AKA E-Tru): You know that
Delirious: Alright, Star Trek space ride through ‘99
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Check it out.  It’s just another day

Brain cells are even lifted like barbells without no weights when an emcee
Deliver style ten times more flow than the River Nile, pull files
Like Tottenham beast station.  Location for the beat-down: Easy 17
I leap heads of half your team while they dream to beat me, bring your ass back to life
Me and the microphone shouldn’t be tested, I be spliffted on it, given a gold microphone
To validate innovation of hip hop pioneering, revolutionary modern-day prophesizer
Light a lighter.  Word to the weed, indeed, never smoke seed.  Emcees buckle like bike rolls
On dirt roads in JA, I turn the first of April into dark-hole mayday
I don’t wanna drop like Bob Marley, jack hard-rock of his Harley Davidson

Delirious: Ahhh, alright, yeah, yeah, yeah, warm now, warmer, warm now, warmer, warm.  Check it out
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Let’s properly smoke this booth.  Yeah, yeah, yeah
Delirious: Head-tops
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Yeah, one more rap, one more rap
Delirious: Aight, nah, we’re out, we’re out, we’re out, that’s it, that’s it
Tru (AKA E-Tru): We’re, we’re kicking one more rhyme, man, we just gotta kick one more rhyme for n***as out there.  Just one more rhyme
Delirious: Alright, go for yours, but the lyricist out here.  See ya!
Tru (AKA E-Tru): Uh, uh, uh, yeah

Jesus creepers, my flow’s smoother than Beemers, lean as
Abalone, ninas, chimney-sweepers and cleaners, mean as
Drug-dealers and brave as stealers for real-a
I drop some hardcore sh*t for my underground hip hop fella
A cellar dweller of a pure magic like Penn &amp; Teller
Definitive real Playboy like Hugh Hefner
So tell your heifer that I’m coming to get her.  If her name’s
Flu era, I get her redder than a gulf-jetter
Better than cheddar, like to most make letter when I
Reach the end of my tender, I won’t be clever like…

Tru (AKA E-Tru): Aight, that’s enough for you now today, boy.  I’ll be back definitely
Delirious: Peace 279, watch out, yes
DJ 279: No problem
Delirious: Eye London Crew, peace out
DJ 279: The mad long freestyle session.  Friday Nite Flavas

clip

Ton pseudo sera publié. Laisses les champs vide pour rester anonyme.