CORRIGER LES PAROLES
Paroles : Method Man + Ghostface Freestyle
Listen, what 6-foot-4 coming at your jaw
It's me kid, coming from the 1-6-2
I got crew kid, straight from the smoked out lungs of the mad one
Blow a crab to kingdom come 'cause it's real son
Represent what town you're from
And I kill rhymes quicker than a clock you'll time
Word life god, f**k making fancy moves
I need props forget about a Hill Street Blue
This is my plot, n***a wanna test my stee
I make sh*t hot, burn to a third degree
And it don't stop, keep on to the break of dawn
And I rip cords in half with the Wu-Tang style
What up? Ha! You're blind 'cause you don't know math
You'se a b*t*h-ass n***a from a light-weight class
Caution, you're p*ssing me off and its forcin' me to have thoughts of extortion
Yo, i'ma be here forever, max like the weather
Thoughts designed and classified like genuine leather
As I get down to the Brownsville
You remain still as I shoot the gift at will
With rough raps banging off of marvelous tracks
Paragraphs slamming like a late night snack
The rap thoroughbreds
You could get with this rhyme specialist
Yes I be possessed leaving threats like a terrorist
Blood spiller, ex-convict, verbal assaulter
Disguising as a psychiatrist whose name's Walter
Now I like smuggling mics of all types
Spotlights at the airport and catch a flight to another chamber
Then I will strike like a stranger
Bad guys shorten they lives and lose fingers
It's me kid, coming from the 1-6-2
I got crew kid, straight from the smoked out lungs of the mad one
Blow a crab to kingdom come 'cause it's real son
Represent what town you're from
And I kill rhymes quicker than a clock you'll time
Word life god, f**k making fancy moves
I need props forget about a Hill Street Blue
This is my plot, n***a wanna test my stee
I make sh*t hot, burn to a third degree
And it don't stop, keep on to the break of dawn
And I rip cords in half with the Wu-Tang style
What up? Ha! You're blind 'cause you don't know math
You'se a b*t*h-ass n***a from a light-weight class
Caution, you're p*ssing me off and its forcin' me to have thoughts of extortion
Yo, i'ma be here forever, max like the weather
Thoughts designed and classified like genuine leather
As I get down to the Brownsville
You remain still as I shoot the gift at will
With rough raps banging off of marvelous tracks
Paragraphs slamming like a late night snack
The rap thoroughbreds
You could get with this rhyme specialist
Yes I be possessed leaving threats like a terrorist
Blood spiller, ex-convict, verbal assaulter
Disguising as a psychiatrist whose name's Walter
Now I like smuggling mics of all types
Spotlights at the airport and catch a flight to another chamber
Then I will strike like a stranger
Bad guys shorten they lives and lose fingers
