paroles de chanson Stay Home - People Under the Stairs

Really wish I'd stayed at home and gotten high,
Instead of coming into the street and having this awful fight*
Yo in the darkness under the stairs, shadow casting a silhouette,
Pair of MCs scribbling elegies by candlelit night on dead writers
Loosing lifes in rhyme fights, trying to bite,
Losing the limelight to the P who's undercover in some LA hats,
Forty days in the studio, struck water from ADATs,
On top of a mountain made of milk crates,
Throwing the tablets on top of breaks and dub it to black plates for
The chosen people who still live in the folklore of DJ Cool Herc,
Bam and Grand Wizard Theodore,
Before any punk with a keyboard could do it, yo Apache was the sh!
T and every B-Boy knew it and so we do it cos we follow original
Rules when only microphones and old records were tools,
Flash forward twenty years later, they calling us haters,
Yo popular rappers call it progress they ain't no
Greater than late seventies disco, Puffy it's not as simple.
Yo it's number one rap,
I'd rather hear an eight-o-eight handclap than that miscontrolled use
Of culture that I love and grew up in,
So many of the wrong mother fuckers blew up in the late nineties,
Here it is, either love your art form or be
A star in showbiz and get paid and get money.
Me and Double K will sit back with a sack yo and just monkey with
Funky breaks that pressing on black plates,
Paying homage to crates to spread across US states,
Making show dates, digging in crates,
Paying dues, we're a local, national, international crew.
Never thought when I was coming up that I'd be the average
Skateboarding, football playing,
I was into staying in the house,
Dropping needles on albums I didn't know about.
AM stereo frequently,
I never cared about wrestling and ice cream trucks,
Just wanted to ride with my cousin EJ, because his car had bumps.
My brother sweared to pick me up, bumped loud on Crenshaw,
To his panicked Cardina where he let a nigga get off,
Gave me doubles of funky drummer,
Took the rest of the crates locked me up inside his room,
Fourteen years later I'm straight and y'all should blame it on that
Man for the havok I reek,
Taught me to speak in techniques and never critique
A DJ with no rhythm, just pull the plug and be out.
Get some records from that fool,
That's what I'm talking about and know niggers like that to me get
'Nuff respect, cash cheques, carry techs, believe in SP12s,
Raise hell about the vinyl if it's not in its place,
Can rock a house with two crates and always showing up late and yo to
Y'all I say thanks and I'm a keep it riding to never and Double's in
This and Thes One's in this and Double K's in this and Thes One's in
This, yo and the P's in this and Double K's in
This and Thes One's in this yo and LA's in this.
What, yeah.