paroles de chanson Tim Westwood Freestyle - Bad Meets Evil feat. Mr. Porter

Welcome to the ill world of Mr. P-O
Aye keep the talk B; I'm tryna see dough
If it ain't about bread, what we gon' speak fo
If it ain't no lead, then it ain't no beef, bro
You better get a leash cause your freak ho
Specialize in wood like she Home Depot
I'm like Chico DeBarge, we stars
Roscoe P. Coltrane in these bars, man
Amtrak, I'll break her damn back, man
It's Ralph Lauren, this ain't no damn Chaps
It's all Polo; I'm so pro though
You bird-crazy: El Pollo Loco
Talking bout cheese and this ain't no photo
Asking bout rings like the ho know Frodo
You better get out of my house and shit
I think I threw up in my mouth a bit, I'm sick

Niggas be lying, talking 'bout that, bust a heater
Once I see him, maybe more like Justin Bieber
Leaving my rivals underground like Skyzoo's, how I do
I have her laying in the street and bleeding
Butt naked with a bullet in his muthafucking head like Erykah Badu
I find irony in being in a place
Where I'm wearing Gucci, mayne; getting White boy wasted
I tell a nigga, break bread or take lead
I'm tryna get rid of this weight like K-Fed
Me and Denaun got a gangsta bond
We like that once-in-a-lifetime thang to you that ain't the prom
The next MC that rhyme official with ref with a whistle
That ain't Young Money, I'mma definitely diss you
If you rhyming packing a Mac with back of the Acura
Or perhaps you can't match my spectacular vernacular
You still rhyming bottles with models, college for knowledge
Using the word swagger, you're probably garbage
You thugs funny, comparing 5'9" to anybody
You comparing Superman to Bugs Bunny

I'm like a White Michael - Vick, psycho enough to stick
Michael J. Fox in a microwave with a Rott
I might make a little Alizé with a side of NyQuil
And ride a motorcycle bike right through the side of my high school
Satan's disciple with a sniper rifle and a knife and a white diaper
Liable to shit on you while I snipe you
So dope he gets off opiates, what an appropriate
Way to start off his day; he may just smart off to Dre
He may be hard to contain cause his rage is so hard to gauge
See Hannibal ate his face and met Jason, gnawed off his leg
Amazing hard-on for razors and blades and anything sharp
Even poisonous darts; it all plays a major part of his game
Holy water won't ward him off, crucifixes won't do the trick
He's so sick, it's ridiculous; sawed the crazy part off his brain
He's still insane, why's there bloodstains on his carpet, mane
There's some crazy shit going on in Shady's apartment again

Okay, it's back to the blocks, slinging yay like the old days
Superman on the beat, I carry my whole state
You wooden legs to a house: you can't hold weight
Oh shit, it's O'Shea Jackson... okay
A little bit of this twisted out with Obama in it
Mr. Porter back with anthrax like Osama sent him
Bitch, I'm all that; I drive the girls crazy
They gotta look at Rorschachs to get they thoughts back
I ain't a small fry, small ticker, small tack
I make 'em all cry with big dick and raw sack
The potblood of science to return a raw rap
I'm the best mayne: Eli Porter stance

Y'all bitches should call Nickle the Don Bishop
A poet, a mixer of Don Goines and John Grisham
Flow'll have you rewinding it four or five times
That landmine rhyme written with porcupine line
Step up in here with the Slaughterhouse
C.O.B. Gang will approach you and bend ya gun barrel to a Horseshoe
Only fuck wit monsters, we the truth, monsters will pop up on you
Like you said Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice
I can't even see the booth, I could fit Stevie's shoe
I'm sick, I got the Desert Eagle flu
I'm rich lil' nigga we don't need a cent, we Teflon
The doctor tried to take blood, the needle bent, ask mom
Outta my mind if you can imagine
Using Magic's johnson without a condom, I'm bonkers
Got the streets going, dude, it's tremendous
If I come for ya blood, I ain't gon' be using syringes

Newsflash, I'm still trashed, them pills should'a killed my ass
But they didn't, they just made me stronger
It's like they rebuilt my ass, like the Six Million Dollar Man after the crash
It's Aftermath, bitch and my milk glass is still half-empty
Yeah tempt me, Hell isn't enough
They need to invent somewhere new to send me
As sick as I'm getting, they'll stick me in a conventional oven
With a rotisserie setting and won't even notice me sweating
Shit, I done made a verse, said some foul shit
Tryna go back fix it, fucked around and just made it worse
Yeah, I'm back, looking no worse for wear, got these haters
Mad enough to rip off their hair and start punching the air
Panties so in a bunch that they can't function
It's Shady and Royce, fuck yeah, what a dysfunctional pair
So stop acting like a punk, get a pair
Take a pill and fall the fuck out, spill ya lunch in the chair

Look I'm sick, somebody better get the Dimetapp
Who I gotta shoot just to prove that I can rap
People ask where my shine is at
I say check the liner notes, I done done all kinda crap
I am so much of a star, bitch
That I can fart and piss on the red carpet
Look, my bank account's retarded
My debit card's got a helmet and a harness, hey
Meet demands but they all are harmless
At shows, my riders always the largest
I need four pounds of fried poultry carcass
And red M&Ms chartered from Charlotte
Look, and if you try to act dumb and start shit
I just yell at em like, I'm the artist
In fact that you know the deal
If you wanna play sick, we can all get ill
Look: measles, mumps, I made you bitches
I don't need you chumps, y'all got cheese and I need my chunks
Hurry up, so I can go to burn rubber and get some more dunks

Now if your attitude determines your latitude
This house that we call hip-hop, I'm in the attic fool
A mic and two turntables, fit for the unstable
Converted to a padded room, keep a street sweeper in fact
I call the mag a broom, you seeing beef, seeing things
You must'a had yourself a bag of shrooms, I make a call
Make 'em fake a fall, my clique is too sick, say goodbye
In the streets where the stakes is high like Ruth's Chris
I'm from the city of true shit
Where the mayor went to jail for being a player right after Proof split
Levels the head of competitors Royce that
I'm drinking everyday til Hex Murda get his regular voice back
Ras, I got ya, look scared at ya, blast from ya
From a block away; ask Tricky, I'm that niggie
I'm mo hooder than black Dickies
I rap like committing suicide in the booth taking the track with me
Patrón's in my chromosomes, in order to leave it alone
You have to ween me off that Lorena Bobbitt chopper'd
Knock a weenie off, put your body between chalk
I'm squeezing the nine iron like I'm swinging golf
I'm with the best rapper alive, put something on it
Your sound's plain as a cheeseburger with nothing on it

I'll do a hundred-yard dash just to slash Kim Kardash' in the ass
With a shard of glass from Nick Hogan's car crash
You may look like the passenger for that, don't be a smartass
Yeah, laugh while you sit there thinking that the hard part passed
You ain't seen pain till Leatherface flips, mayne
I'll cut ya fucking balls off homie, my saw's off the chain
I chopped the bitch in half with it, sawed off her legs
And the top half of the torso fucking crawled off insane
I ain't seen shit like that since I went to Mike Jack's
And took the Elephant Man's skull, fucked it, and put it right back
Handed my dick to Bubbles while he sucked it and licked my nut sack
Gave him a reach-around while I fucked him right in his butt crack
Nah I ain't taking it back faggot, fuck that
I give a fuck about nothing so here's where you fucked up at
Don't go touching that can, man; you don't wanna open up that
Wait a min, ah, shit... Alchemist, cut that