Observe the Sound
Title | Observe the Sound |
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Artist | 7L & Esoteric |
Album | Hell’s Lost & Found: It’s The Bootleg, Muthafu@kas! Volume 2 |
Release Date | 2006-01-01 |
Description | |
Lyrics | [Intro: Apathy] Yeah! Apathy... (Uh) L the Headtoucha (yea)... J-Live... Esoteric... (What!?) Yo! Yo! [Verse 1: Apathy] I'm like Bruce Lee swingin' nunchucks, nice with mic checks You young bucks receive tongue fucks and sliced necks Precise like a sniper with a heat scope You choke, like a teen's first toke of weed smoke I leave you broke like a weak rope was tied to a Speedboat, waterskiing over in a peacoat And all my tight flows tend to offend you Gay pussies like dyke jokes for uptight white folks Those who bite flows soon as I write those Are cursed in the verse to stumble over the typos I strike foes with the right blows, to make you flip Like I'm shovin' the mics between your bike spokes So if you imitate, mimic to simulate I'll make your life shorter than the songs on a snippet tape I spit it great to finish miniature fakes And diminish your pace like roadblocks for prison breaks [Verse 2: L Da Headtoucha] My release is... somethin' to leave a nigga speechless To each his own homes we can zone through the speakers When I rhyme, time freezes, you better off to look and find jesus See crime teaches, spit divine thesis Good luck with the dime, got you up against the rucker rhyme Mister rap a lot, twist the rhythm half a knot Cross the map I got, bigger math to plot Herbs have to rock, y'all ain't half as hot Still stuck on how this rapper got To the moon like fuckin' astronauts Think you God now? Perhaps your not I'ma smack your knot and take back the thought (word!) Dozens of herbs will observe the sound Unfamiliar to some from a land unfound We rep the ground 'til the last round, surpass clowns With central Mass. sounds, What you don't know? Ask around Ski mask down, get around to ruin your name Headtoucha motherfucker, still true in the game [Verse 3: Esoteric] Ya'll ain't worthy of war, I'm grimy like the dirtiest floor I'm murderin' your brigade, they herbs to the core I bring slaughter, you cats flavourless like spring water King Arthur with the rhymes harder than Mings daughter I'm Flash Gordon, fresh out the box are my black Jordans Raps scorcher... cats or the track, author - slash - mad swordsman You taking about graff, and how you keep reppin' shit But you got a Jeopardy's contestant's penmanship MCs look up to me like Extra P looks up to Paul C Y'all see, I'm lethal and cerebral like palsy Phoney gangsters leave your lungs a break That ain't chrome that's silicone, your guns are fake And in this indie industry, I'm what you call a model citizen I got the discipline, position and conditionin' The terrorists and the police are both listenin' That's why the Feds tryin' to wet my like a christenin' You might also like[Verse 4: J-Live] Aiyyo, it's J dash L-I, who the hell am I? Above average Joe with a likewise flow The underground give me love for my lyrical wit As the type of MC not to be not fucked with I got my money on the means to expand my mind I got my mind on more than the money which means I ain't tryin' to make a livin' sellin' dreams to fiends I'm out to see the young world livin' past 18 While you fantasize millions instead of the long green Fuck a Lear jet, I'm trying to push a F-18 Drop a smart bomb on folks that don't see what I mean Blow the spot, barrel roll and then flee from the scene I'm thinkin' long range, the only thing constant is change And yet still, my lyrics leave a permanent stain On the mind of all those insultin' the name J-Live, 99, still true to the game... What?! |