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JUMP BACK | BE FORWARD

So step up if you wanna get hurt

Count my iron in millimeters, my stash is in milligrams
But when I count coup then I do it in pentagrams
When I'm on like LeBon I don't blame it on Rio
But I'm throwin' the horns like my name was James Dio
Ghetto boll weevil, USDA primeval
Watch my snake jump like I was Evel Knieval
Size you up like a Brannock, growin' beats so organic
'Cause I'm heated, not frosted, I'm Satanic causing panic
All my metal is heavy, break you down like a Chevy
Packin' so many arms you might think I'm a devi
But I'm straight outta Hades, and I'm hell on the ladies
And I'm bringin' more fear than a thousand Max Cadys
'Cause I'm strictly a villain, electrifyin' like Max Dillon
If you think that you're still in, come and witness a killin'
Murderous on the mic, king of codin' like Vic
I'm sayin' "welcome to hell, kid" – now do what you like

Now I'm made in America like the hydrogen bomb
If you want my statistics, go to deadsuckas.com
It takes a minute to kill, it takes a second to die
And then a lifetime in hell, your punk ass wondering why
I'm the Beast of all b-boys, rap's Aleister Crowley
When you talk no one listens, like you was Coleen Rowley
You promise me scriptures but got nothin' to say
While I'm rewriting the Bible just like Anton LaVey
I been sent as an omen, like Damien Thorn
Pullin' trim like a showman while you're downloadin' porn
Got a sting in my tail like my name was Pazuzu
I strictly will use you, leave you with a boo-boo
While you mess with your levels I'll be raising the Devil
While you're cryin' for peace you appease me like Neville
I'm the Hellstrom of hip-hop, the first seed of Satan
I'll see you in Hell for the high crime of hatin'

Comments

( 7 SHOTS LICKED — LICK A SHOT )
oilyrags
May. 15th, 2008 04:43 pm (UTC)
Sorry, only time for 16 right now
When I crack my knuckles I blow out speakers
My lifestyle bubbles like fluids in beakers
Go on and drown your troubles, losers weepers
You need some cuddles but I'm grim like reapers
The mic and I are married and she'll never get half
Cause we keep it all together like feet on the path
Marching in time, barking my rhyme
If blowing minds is a crime I'm the Don and the kind
of motherfucker you don't want to address
I ain't impressed by the way that you dress
Or the ring on your hand or the dread on your head
Clear my throat so you don't ask 'is that what he said'?
You got shit in your pants and piss in your pimp cup
I'm a bright cat but you just a dim pup
After I smash your hopes you're left asking then what
Put the mic down and don't pick the pen up
ludickid
May. 15th, 2008 06:04 pm (UTC)
Re: Sorry, only time for 16 right now
Handin' me sixteen and sayin' it's sweet
When you only need four to go down in defeat
Just put down your notebook, you don't know what you're doin'
All you got is a quote book, it's leadin' to ruin
You just turned on the mic and the crowd started booin'
Now you clogged the commode with the shit that you're spewin'
You barged into my cypher and asked me what's happenin'
But your rhymes are all reruns, like Shirley they're fattenin'
Like a pissed-on epistle, ain't but bones and some gristle
Now I'm aimin' my whistle at your head like a missile
Or better yet, warhead that's aimed at your forehead
I come from the Heartland, but you're straight-up corn-fed
My red alert sounded, I'm gonna go nuclear
If you ain't got an answer when I ask what you do here
I'll hit you with every neutron in the depot
Take you out, but I'm leavin' your house for the repo

That's assuming they want it when they see all your junk
All your rhymes that's worth saving I could fit in my trunk
And still have room for the lies that you told 'bout your girlies
Front like you're hard but you're still gettin' swirlies
Try takin' my spot? I'm the player who made you
No sooner I rolled you than I'm gonna fade you
I was keepin' your rookie card, but now I'ma trade you
So turn in your papers, punk, I'm gonna grade you
"A" for anxiety, "B" for your braggin'
"C" for your junkie ass chasin' the dragon
"D" for your doggin' me, and "F" 'cause you're frontin'
Swing for the fences but you ain't even buntin'
That's an "E", which means "error", you big belly-itcher
You need some relief, your position is bitcher
Head back to the dugout 'fore I pull the rug out
And see the school nurse so she can pull the slug out
perich
May. 15th, 2008 05:00 pm (UTC)
the return of dr. c.l.a.w.
All those weak rhymes you spewing, like green pea soup vomit
I'm'a bleach from the stage with my lyrical Comet
When I take to the stage with my ghetto street sonnets
Girls get off on my style before I even get on it
You're a fake - feet of clay - worse than Wallace and Gromit
You're at Alpha Centauri; man, I'm light years beyond it
Taking water from the well only after I've drawn it
Finish spitting your verse, see me stretching and yawning
Man, you callin' this hell? Man, I've seen worse at Disney
Tiny wannabe rappers, thinking that they can diss me
Thinking that they big time, taking pictures with Minnie
Think they'll make it with Jasmine - heh, they'll do it with Benji
I spit two million rhymes, still have ten million in me
Thinking that you can topple my style is a sin, see
See you in your fake bling, looking phony and chintzy
Just a silly has-been, like the artist named Prince be.

You sketchy-ass MCs with satanic verses
Like watching Reservoir Dogs when they bleep out the curses
You're toting peashooters while I rock the two Glocks
See me on temple rooftops, delivering truth shots
Drive you out like the Exorcist, spinning and stuck
Leave your neck spouting blood from this director's cut
Talking like you a demon? Like this Tales from the Hood?
Bitch, I saw that in theaters - that shit was no good
I descend from Mt. Sinai, with white beard and Gators
To divide the two tribes into MCs and haters
So step off from that phony, that golden calf idol
I'm supplying immunity for hip-hop survival
With my mic I anoint you; real MCs, compel!
Got some poseurs to slay, some devils to expel
It's the Third Revelation of hip hop upon us
So quit hogging my spotlight - apage, satanas!
ludickid
May. 15th, 2008 06:43 pm (UTC)
Re: the return of dr. c.l.a.w.
I'm the Fresh Prince of Darkness, you just some cherub Carlton
Always front like you're Kool, but you're just some cheap Tarleton
I'm Brando, you're Perkins in this battle of Marlons
I'll own you like DC when they bought out Charlton
You broke up the cypher, disrupted the circle
Your horned in on the family like your name was Urkel
You can't back up the shit that you're gonna be eatin'
You tried stealin' the show, but you're just takin' a beatin'
Tried applyin' your will, but you're Wesley like Wheaton
The unfunkiest white man since Alex P. Keaton
You front like you're Jo, but you're really just Joey
I drop eight-bar science, you just stare and say "Whoa!"
We need educated rappers, but you dropped out of Hillman
You got as much street cred as your boy Whit Stillman
You come from Manhattan but you front like you're Shaolin
I come straight-up ripper and start disembowelin'

You talkin' 'bout Gators wearin' knockoff BKs
You smellin' like chiltlins and rap mayonnaise
You rock Puma sweats, but they spelled with two Os
Brag you got boomin' system, that shit's strictly Bose
Your kicks are Korean copies of Kenneth Cole
Your grillz is from Wal-Mart, got gold on a roll
You walk in the club, all the girls sayin' "My God!"
It ain't you so hot, they just shocked at your Izod
You heard about style once, but you can't remember
But you show off your jacket that's only for members
While I'm up on stage lookin' fly, clockin' dollars
You hang back on the wall while you poppin' your collar
Bought your girl Puritans, said they was Manolos
That's like Jar Jar Binks dressed up like Han Solo
Crawlin' in thrift stores while I'm still in fashion
Smokin' oregano while my bowl I'm cashin'
perich
May. 15th, 2008 07:22 pm (UTC)
Re: the return of dr. c.l.a.w.
I guess you can blame Kools for your weak breath control
And DC plagiarizin' for those lyrics you stole
Makin' copies like Kinko's, losing money like Plinko
Got some change from the spitcan to buy you a drink, though.
Yeah, dance rummy - dance! From my hip-hop six-shooters
I'm deep like Navy SEALs, you're deep like Roto-Rooter
Crawl through shit, like you're looking for Shawshank Redemption
I just shank what I saw - weak MCs I could mention
Yeah, I'm Alex P. Keaton - in a new suit and tie
Get the shakes when I think of MCs I should fry
You're a fat Tina Yothers with a case of pinkeye
And I'm back from the future, exposing your lie.
Just like Meredith Baxter, I get pain in my breast
When I dwell on these suckas who think they can test
The original, limitless, underground best
When you're at number one, haters won't let you rest.

You got nerve, trying to claim that I look like a wreck
When you're sucking off guests to make change for coat check
Waiters take my fine leather, call me "Don Vittorio,"
While your Triple Fat Goose oozes Double-Stuf Oreos
Girlies lose their cold hands when they see my Cole Haans
You've got leftover sandals that marched from Bataan
While you sit in your trailer, wait for Grey's to come on
In your funky mess shorts, on your ratty rattan
I'm the hip hop von Braun, firing lyrical rockets
You just think you got game 'cause you still pop and lock it
No more spark than a paperclip stuck in a socket
Now it's time to stand trial in the Thuggin' Life Docket
Line these rhymes on my timepiece from Jakob the Jeweler
Dig your grave, like Calloway dug on Minnie Missoula
I'm scoring like Brady; you're hating like Shula
Get your ass off my stage - ey, puta, vaffancula!
ludickid
May. 15th, 2008 08:31 pm (UTC)
Re: the return of dr. c.l.a.w.
I am the mountain, boy, you are the hilltop
Went out jaywalking and you act like you killed cops
The fact that you're nervous must be while you pill-pop
You're right twice a day like a clock but you're still stop
Don't know the difference between Montana and moocher
Talkin' Italian but comin' off loucher
Ain't got the right stuff, you screwin'-the-poocher
Quit tryin' to dance, you'll rip open your suture
You got no insurance, you leech on the system
You shot at your targets, but each time you missed 'em
A four for charisma, a zero for wisdom
What ways am I better? Sit down and I'll list 'em
My rhymin' is better; I'm clockin' more cheddar
I flow like a shredder; I'm takin' the header
Pinpoint to the letter; my women are wetter
My enemies deader; yo mama -- I've met her

So cease all your strivin' and honky high-fivin'
You paid for your ticket but you won't be arrivin'
There's an ocean of wackness that you took a dive in
With corny-ass rhymes that you're shuckin' and jivin'
The whole crowd can see all the hoke that you're hidin'
My skin is like stone, you're aluminum sidin'
I still strut the uprock, you're electric slidin'
I live on Beat Street; on Chump Drive you're residin'
I'm the Mayor of Rapsville, decided by voters
Rhyme sleek and unique when compared to your bloaters
While I rise above all the haters and gloaters
You're rushin' my ride but got caught in the rotors
The boys think I'm brainy and girls think I'm pretty
Now you shittin' yourself while you're callin' me shitty
Like Jizza says, ain't no love here in the city
So go back to writin' your rhymes-by-committee
perich
May. 15th, 2008 09:18 pm (UTC)
Re: the return of dr. c.l.a.w.
Talk about Beat Street and you'll feel my Krush Groove
Leave you reeling with damage from my Bum Rush move
Girls come home with me, 'cause my ride is plush, dude
Can't even understand you, 'cause your mouth is mush (ooh!)
Pull that hat over your eyes and slink out the back
Like Akeem's first job, you're a bootleg Big Mac
Watch my robotic henchmen, all on the attack,
Take a racquet to your grill, 'cause your face is WHACK
Thanks for highlighting my rhymes with your weak-ass game
Now ride off in the sunset, getting shot like Shane
Or like rap's John Denver, leaving on a jet plane
Why you think you can compete, I just can't explain
I've fucked you and left you like you's Penny Lane
Thrown your ass off the stage like yo' mom from this train
My membrane is insane while these rhymes fall like rain,
In your head like a virus - a clear Window pain.

Man, they call you Pop Warner, while I'm the big baller
Like the Vanishing Point, watch your talent get smaller
You speed through your rhymes like Kowalski and all a'
Them junkies and losers in riced-out Impalas
Like Saul, I've been blessed with a rap revelation
The scales on my eyes now weigh grams for the nation
As I hook all your groupies on my sound sensation
Now I'll put you to sleep for my hip-hoperation
First, I open your chest with my razor-sharp art
Hold up! Call Agent Scully! This cat got no heart!
Must've thought he could cheat his way into the part
Used a 30-lives code but forgot to hit START
Wipe my hands of your treacherous style with a rag
Then dispose of your corpse in a gray body bag
You went out like Omar - labeled with the wrong tag
It said "MC" instead of "A Shame to the Flag."
( 7 SHOTS LICKED — LICK A SHOT )

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flavored with age
ludickid
Gun-totin', Chronic-smokin' Hearse Initiator
Ludic Log

PROPRIETOR

Leonard Pierce is a freelance writer wandering around Texas with no sleep or sense of direction. If you give him money he will write something for you. If you are nice to him he may come to your house and get drunk.

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