Eff Yoo, G.S. Advance, Spit Gemz, Skanks - Chinese Super Ninjas текст песни

Taking alcohol straight to the face since Strydex
I still fucks with gold caps, triple beams and Pyrex
Protein for muscle definition in my biceps
Days when a quarter got you 5 minutes on Nynex
And you could do math equations on the face of your Timex
Aight bet
We get it Eff, you a 90's head
'85, five of us sleep on a tiny bed
Tryna to get by, my uncle tryna get high
Stealing from my moms check
Left her holding 90 cents
I wrote this whole verse in a dark room, with shiny pens
Tryna develop thoughts, paint a picture for grimey heads
ESP, I’ll pull your card through meditation
I’m a master of illusions and prestidigitation
3 card Molly, digit manipulation, all inside your mami
She beggin for the dictation
I park my giant spaceship, in her Rego Park basement
My ego large, I repo hearts on daily basis
With many faces, this shit never changes
Inscribed this rhyme on a pamphlet/Eff Yoo without the lamb skin /fucker
(Verse 2: G.S. Advance)
About a thousand times more so, eat every morsel
They cry for more souls
My quality spawns pure gold, might speak in Morse code
Fly encryptions, time hidden inside of my inscriptions
The wisest see, take everything plus a side of fixins'
Vancini the Great, the most atrocious
Climb walls, she hooked. Rock ninja shoes with the toes split
On purpose, might let one barely live
The old folks told legends of me to scare the kids
Shallow for the breed, shadow in the breeze
Shower with debris. Child get the brie
'Till fly estates, grape vines behind some iron gates
Still trying to find how I escaped, son defied a trace
Enjoy a plate of dinner, destroy and make it better
My life should be illustrated by Frank Frazetta
G.S. Advance, a mission from a different year
Appear from no where, kill everyone quick, and disappear
(Verse 3: Skanks the Rap Martyr)
Yo Eff, Yo, my ninja Von told me a long time ago
That niggas gon' tell on your bodie, just kill 'em with the flow
I been a pro, the lyrical malesting is taking place
You kids ain’t safe, whatever i see i take, like Miz and Rafe
But this ain’t fake, this is real life
Not just a rap song
The reason why that nosy ass bitch ain’t gon' live that long
A snitch could get her crack on, ain’t a person she won’t rat on Bitch mouth so big, you could put your head in it with a hat on I never begged for mercy or payed my attorney
'cause i never served time, i always made my time serve me See it all in your face how you be wantin' to hate
Is it because you old too soon, or young too late?
Oh, i get it You think i think my shit must not stink?
Well i hit the sink and wash my hands before i touch my dick
You listening, boppin' with that sick look on your grill
Like you smell some stank box Massengil couldn’t kill
Nigga i’m ill
(Verse 4: Spit Gemz)
I stole a horse, rode it off a cliff, then i slept in it
I’m on my shit, if you can hear, you just stepped in it Hawk your son, toss your corpse, you ain’t deadin' shit
That’s that for the Glass that won’t shatter
On my life-proof death machine
The hue’s (Hugh) like a beautiful red thing
It’s crucial what i do when i says things
Bare (bear) with me, the air’s with me when i speak
They tend to cater to cadence, i rather just let it breathe
My P’s got a disease
Options for a teen, boxed in amongst the fiends
Ain’t abundant and it seems
Nobody sees
We’re boxing toxins in our genes
From before we took our first gulp of oxygen, i mean
I know i tend to drift though
When i let the gift go My kid’s growing, if i don’t say nothing
Who will Bro?
I still kick flows for the love of it
I love the shit!
Which means, i still do free shows for the public
A verse’ll cost you if it means something to you
I’ll do it for nothing if i see something in you.
Eff can say he’s dropping an album with one verse on it And the rest is me, i’m getting right to work on it As long as the drums are hard and the instruments are haunted
This Broken Home shit, is way beyond these rap groups
My Pops used to kick it with Dondi, you talking «rap roots»
Clap who?
You rap ratchets, that’s ill talk
But i’m the product of a roscoe like IllYork
A son of a gun, i son 'em for fun
I plan on counting bread 'till MZRE got blisters on his thumbs
Until my seed has her own art school that she runs
My last request: turn my ashes to vinyl and get it spun
In the club that you’re in, when you celebrate the win
Until then, all i ask is that you elevate your pen
Gemz