The Weathermen, Cage, Copywrite, Yak Ballz - Every Rapper In The House Shut The Fuck Up lyrics

We do dirt
We go alone i’m PS2, your game’s Coleco
It’s old big headed
And the size ain’t fitted for my ego alone
Holding NY
But, I do it for my people back home
In O-H-IO,  where the snowflakes like whoa
Fiends sniff in the streets
Hoping it’s cocaine by loads
I tell ‘em, "Sorry, but there’s no way, 5-0
Would have scooped it and sold that shit
To the whole state by now"
A message for you biters: don’t take my style
When it’s straight under, you’re fetal
Have your Colgatе-like smile
In cutthroat mode with no cakе right now, so
Get your girl a vest to
Protect her chest ‘cause I
Pull out on a bitch like unprotected sex
Then I
Take her bracelet and matching necklace set
No patience
Quicker, it’s an unexpected death
Be gracious
Bitch, I’m nutting on your breast
And chest now blow me
You brat, twenty bucks you owe me for that
Throw me a sack honest
I promise to pay you back
Next time you ask me, I’ll be like
"You shouldn’t have gave me that"
Gangbanging your chick
You keep tonguing that bitch
Cats that see me come up be like
"How you keep coming with shit?" i tell ‘em
"Sometimes the illest shit’s right
Under your nose"
Like my mouthpiece when I recite
Some of my flows and dykes wanna get close
I turn ‘em heterosexual
Then turn around and be like
"Invite some of your hoes"
You are what you eat that shit’s facts
Why I never eat pussy and
Just stick with Big Macs mACs

Every rapper in the house shut the fuck up
Every rapper in the house shut the fuck up
Every rapper in the house should
Shut the fuck up
Don’t go against no Weathermen
You gonna get fucked up

And I ain’t fucked up now
Bluffing the basics
Lead stuff in the Asics from that
Head puff in the Matrix
I’ll let my brain cells fight it
Out until the lighter out
You ain’t even got hands to hold
The guns you write about ain’t got a heater
I stay putting it down and
Don’t come off this
Accomplice nine ninas spray dolo with more
Letter combinations than my brethren K-Solo
LSD, THC, PCP
The only three left I need’s GED, oh!
You know you can’t stand the manic
Even if you don’t get the picture
The point of view’s still panoramic
Chemical organic, your leaf is clouded
Catch a contact
Cracking in three plus two thousand

Damn! How you like us now, bitches?
Weathermen chain gang! I’ll let
You count the stitches
Fresh-ordered Timbs every time I kill it
But it’s really not the outfit
It’s how I fit in it
My shine is bling-bling
Floss like cha ching ching
Sluts all souped-up
They wanna be my main fling
There’s no denying that he’s
Doing the damn thing
Fucking puppets like I got these
Motherfuckers on strings you don’t
Really want it put money on it
I’ll put a hunny on it
Fuck it, I’ll put a couple hunnies on it
Get twenty on it
Smoke the kid up, smoke, choke my shit up
Flow so hot now, 5-0 want my wrists in cuffs
But not before I get my cut
Fuck J-Lo, I know dimes with bigger butts
And I’m sorry that you faggots
Shit out of luck (Luck) drank too much
And my stomach ready to upchuck!
Put me in the clip
Dump it cliques running but there’s nowhere
To hide, so I gotta hit something
Split something, we get the shit jumping
Mayne!