Ras Kass, Pharoahe Monch - C What I C lyrics
[Ras Kass, Pharoahe Monch - C What I C lyrics]
Ah, Pharoahe Monch, yeah
I said "Yes, yes, y'all, to the beat, y'all"
We tryin' to teach the young and get the loot
And still be like havin' a ball hey hey hey
We try to walk a little bit like this I say
I hate rap promoters, I start to motor
Talk from Southside to North Minnesota
Dre gramm of yey with a small cup of soda
Never get the women with the underarm odor
Sky town Motorola holder who
Rocks golder than
Those who fold when they try to
Throw me the cold shoulder
Try to tell these younger kids
Cause I'm a little older
The war's about to happen and
We need our little soldiers
I riggity-rock, I wriggity-wreck shop
(Nah, I'm fuckin' with y'all)
I fall through parallel universes with a gun
And murder myself to gain strength like
Jet Li in "The One"
Catch me in ya slum, slumming
Sippin' a little some-something
Bumping Big Pun it's nothing to
Front and get to dumpin'
Something up in here y'all gon'
Make me lose my mind
Use my nine, and do my time
I do my grime, and spit rhymes freaky
Air it out
Put new holes in conscious rappers' dishikis
Be beneath me, no rapper could defeat me
Like puttin' your face in feces (I talk shit)
Who I be? Real nigga with a fake ID
Og, bg, la, nyc the matrix is radio and TV
I see designer glasses, titties and asses
Voluptuous beats, that bumps
That move the masses
Disastrous beats that strike VIP passes
It's on (It's on?) It's on
(I see sex, money and rhyme, murder and crime
Good time, soldiers that grind
For lust for the shine
Bentley's, bitches that break ballers
All us, wanna be shot-callers
Call the coroners)
They say I was too advanced to advance
Now who's the chancellor?
You couldn't scrap if you was one
Of Big Daddy Kane's dancers
The answer but not for the '76's
I pull your lips off
Stick ya dick in your mouth
And put your lips where your dick was
Sideways pussy
Punks try to prevoke, chastise and push me
Queens shit (Come on) Queens shit (Come on)
Fuck around and get your
Motherfucking spleen split (Come on)
Thorough on turntables for technicians
To play it
Hi Tek laid for Pharoahe Monch to slay it
I'm triple R rated: Ras Rip Raps
Ride Rolls-Royces Ravenous raps
With big racks, really
Really, hah, I refuse to rot consumers
Cause scorn groupies get mad
And spread rumors like
"Do you hear what I hear"
(I heard gay rapper's a thug, and not a nerd)
Can you believe that shit, Monch?
(Word, Ras) Word (I heard a lot of
Murderers ain't really murderers
And it's absurd cause they frontin' like
They never heard of us)
Niggas playin' king-pin but only
Curb servers or claim they want beef but
Really only herbivores
If you want to party trunk
And wanna get crunked
Throw ya hands up! Bitches
Throw ya hands up!
I see designer glasses, titties and asses
Voluptuous beats, that bumps
That move the masses
Disastrous beats that strike VIP passes
It's on (It's on?) It's on
(I see sex, money and rhyme, murder and crime
Good time, soldiers that grind
For lust for the shine
Bentley's, bitches that break ballers
All us, wanna be shot-callers
Call the coroners)
I said "Yes, yes, y'all, to the beat, y'all"
We tryin' to teach the young and get the loot
And still be like havin' a ball hey hey hey
We try to walk a little bit like this I say
I hate rap promoters, I start to motor
Talk from Southside to North Minnesota
Dre gramm of yey with a small cup of soda
Never get the women with the underarm odor
Sky town Motorola holder who
Rocks golder than
Those who fold when they try to
Throw me the cold shoulder
Try to tell these younger kids
Cause I'm a little older
The war's about to happen and
We need our little soldiers
I riggity-rock, I wriggity-wreck shop
(Nah, I'm fuckin' with y'all)
I fall through parallel universes with a gun
And murder myself to gain strength like
Jet Li in "The One"
Catch me in ya slum, slumming
Sippin' a little some-something
Bumping Big Pun it's nothing to
Front and get to dumpin'
Something up in here y'all gon'
Make me lose my mind
Use my nine, and do my time
I do my grime, and spit rhymes freaky
Air it out
Put new holes in conscious rappers' dishikis
Be beneath me, no rapper could defeat me
Like puttin' your face in feces (I talk shit)
Who I be? Real nigga with a fake ID
Og, bg, la, nyc the matrix is radio and TV
I see designer glasses, titties and asses
Voluptuous beats, that bumps
That move the masses
Disastrous beats that strike VIP passes
It's on (It's on?) It's on
(I see sex, money and rhyme, murder and crime
Good time, soldiers that grind
For lust for the shine
Bentley's, bitches that break ballers
All us, wanna be shot-callers
Call the coroners)
They say I was too advanced to advance
Now who's the chancellor?
You couldn't scrap if you was one
Of Big Daddy Kane's dancers
The answer but not for the '76's
I pull your lips off
Stick ya dick in your mouth
And put your lips where your dick was
Sideways pussy
Punks try to prevoke, chastise and push me
Queens shit (Come on) Queens shit (Come on)
Fuck around and get your
Motherfucking spleen split (Come on)
Thorough on turntables for technicians
To play it
Hi Tek laid for Pharoahe Monch to slay it
I'm triple R rated: Ras Rip Raps
Ride Rolls-Royces Ravenous raps
With big racks, really
Really, hah, I refuse to rot consumers
Cause scorn groupies get mad
And spread rumors like
"Do you hear what I hear"
(I heard gay rapper's a thug, and not a nerd)
Can you believe that shit, Monch?
(Word, Ras) Word (I heard a lot of
Murderers ain't really murderers
And it's absurd cause they frontin' like
They never heard of us)
Niggas playin' king-pin but only
Curb servers or claim they want beef but
Really only herbivores
If you want to party trunk
And wanna get crunked
Throw ya hands up! Bitches
Throw ya hands up!
I see designer glasses, titties and asses
Voluptuous beats, that bumps
That move the masses
Disastrous beats that strike VIP passes
It's on (It's on?) It's on
(I see sex, money and rhyme, murder and crime
Good time, soldiers that grind
For lust for the shine
Bentley's, bitches that break ballers
All us, wanna be shot-callers
Call the coroners)