Lyrics Clap Sh*t Up (feat. Phonte) - Torae feat. Phonte

Want to hear my old shit, buy my old album
If you really love it, why I only sold thousands?
By the grace of God, I made it out of housing
But I'm still Coney Isl styling
Wild as a stallion and cocky, had to go Rambo to get my wrists rocky
Cheddar drenched broccoli
That's what's on my pallet in my wallet
Wardrobe was war mode then I got a stylist
Now you want to smile, miss? Miss me
On the Hardwood where the Knicks be, flick it up, Melo drop 60
Shifty, low down gritty and
I'm just doing this 'til my city is the shit again
Dropped Barrel Brothers, it was notable
"Make You A Believer", my verse ain't get a quotable, so fuck it, I'm over you
No fuck it, I'm overdue, none of y'all better
Bar for bar, Line for line, to the letter
I came from EBT, made it on to BET
Vinyl and CD, all off the P-E-N
Now it's 6 days on SXM
And I'm just getting started, you could hit the target
Or fill out applications for Target
You on one, I'm off it, probably want to forfeit
How you 'pposed to score vs Tor and not want shit?
Aw shit, I'm still beasting the bars, flow shit Malik and Jamal
Still bodying every beat that I'm on
Any street that I'm on, I'm a sight still
Shine like a million dollar light bill
Even Bun B know I'm type trill, type ill, might steal your misses
Treat it like a four-course meal and do the dishes
Scratch off my wish list, add to my "fuck it" list
Name an MC that can fuck with this
Probably had to add to your bucket list, bucket this, blam
That's the only way you could body me, fam
Pardon me, damn, I got to go
Brought in Tigallo to clap shit up some more

Me and my man's on a war tour
But the crowd screaming for more Tor
And Tigallo on the assist, he's the orator
You can count on just like a scoreboard
But what the fuck you keeping score for
When the L is imminent
Scrimmaging against you effeminate niggas in boy shorts
Kitten heel raps scratching up the floor boards
In a top hat, you rap niggas is Boy George
I attack tracks with more force
And more anger than a gangster in a Russian divorce court
Mad 'cause his wife is going after his stored Porsche
So she can make some more
Then he really want to call her a bi-, but if you call her a bi-
The judge gon' tell him to ease up, poor sport
Respect my mind
I testify, but on the track
Your favorite rapper will get left behind
Like he got an F in a core course
Not here to lollygag, I specialize in bodybags
And if we in the streets, motherfuck an autograph
The only signature that I need is 4 4
So I can run amok, I just lay low in the buck, I
Don't really claim to be a tough guy but never been the shook type
Last name, Look Like, first name, Fuck I
Raised in the Marley Marl era, so you better call Saul
And tell Saul to call pallbearers
Just a little Tigallo will make it all better
So fuck the radio stations and all the call letters
Cause my rhymes commodities go off like IED's
Lines go over your head and stay there like the sword of Damocles
Peace to Skyzoo, Oddisee
And plus the old school, the Hercs, the Bams, and the Toddy Tees
When I become a legend, just acknowledge me fam
Pardon me, damn, I got to go
Y'all clap shit up, I give it a standing O