Love Hurts Lyrics

DJ 279 ft. 2Face (A-Butta & L-Swift), Big Kwam, Tru, and Delirious - “Choice FM 96.9: Friday Nite Flavas - 2Face (A-Butta & L-Swift), Big Kwam, Tru, and Delirious Freestyle in 1996” [Emcee(s): L-Swift, A-Butta, Big Kwam, Tru (AKA E-Tru), and Delirious] [Producer(s) of Instrumental 1: [?]] [Producer(s) of Instrumental 2: [?]] [Producer(s) of Instrumental 3: The Creators (Juliano & Si Spex) {Original Instrumental from 2Face (A-Butta & L-Swift) - “Hey Hey Hey”}] [Producer(s) of Instrumental 4: The Creators (Juliano & Si Spex) {Original Instrumental from The Creators - “Back At B and Babas (Skit 3)”}] [Producer(s) of Instrumental 5: [?]] [Producer(s) of Instrumental 6: [?]] [Intro: L-Swift and A-Butta] L-Swift: “Hey, Hey, Hey, Hey,” hahahaha A-Butta: Yeah, son, I’m feeling this joint L-Swift: So how y’all feeling? A-Butta: Word up L-Swift: Yo, A, man A-Butta: London in the house, y’all, Choice 96.9, one time L-Swift: Yo, we’re gonna hit you with some of that New York flavor A-Butta: Whoo! Sup, L? You ready? L-Swift: Yo A-Butta: Do your thing, kid L-Swift: Let me see. I got to vibe. Ha, check it. Uh, uh, yo, yo [Verse 1: L-Swift, A-Butta, and 2Face] These lyrics be on some whatever shit. Natural Elements got Your heart with bangers and Beretta clips. How you setting it? Ayyo Lyrically blessing it, my hand sparks—that’s when the jam starts I’m leaving landmarks on niggas like the Milli’ Man March. I slams Like my man Starks, throwing fear in you and your man heart Like burglars, used to bag bitches up near Ursula, and had Them hoes sitting on a nigga wood like furniture. Verbally Burning ya with circular style like calligraphy, lyrics be Liquidy when we perform lyrical wizardry. Yo, no diggedy Physically, niggas of my stature can’t fail. You got The smarts of Dan Quayle, I work wonders with Champell’. You can’t See me and L-Swift, so teach your hand to understand braille Flipping the mic—right—coming through like fan mail. Yo, messing With me is risky like cocaine-crack hand-to-hand sales, electrify Like track rails. Uh, some niggas act frail, ayyo, they rap stale Rougher than bad jails, get extorted or blackmailed. Lyrics be So dope, they measure our skills on gram scales, the sweet Lyrics be dripping rapidly and leaving ant trails, but, L This ain’t no picnic. Yo, check the slick shit, nasty like Porno flick chicks with thick tits, splitting lyrics like slit wrists. I gets More green than bitches with syphilis piss gets. Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh, yo, with The quickness, we bless this shit like bishops and flip Scripts—from where, kid?—Fortress abyss, kid, so dig this, huh It’s L and A like that every day. Check it, yo [Verse 2: A-Butta] I make you forfeit Like four-fifth, my crew fortifies The Fortress, causing static like a cordless phone Off-the-dome, I gets hot like the sauce gets I hit skins and sport Timbs made out of Gore-Tex, plus I grab the mic and start busting often. Emcees I’m dusting/Dustin like Hoffman, something to bump up in your Walkman. Lyrically I’m scorching, so take precaution when I’m talking I flow like the north winds, cause distortions like abortions Niggas is ass-out-thick like porno flick endorsements [Verse 3: L-Swift] Of course it’s the Style-finesser, lady-fly-undresser Quickest to grab a Olde E, lyrically test ya when I bless ya Like Websters, I got vocab for your ass, I let My fo’-fo’ blast like po’-po’ stash. Your shit’s irrelevant Like stripping hoes who don’t show no ass at nightclubs My mic shine like thousand-watt lightbulbs, I make A mic budge, I’m hitting hoes without no fight gloves, so peep it I get the deep buzz for when I’m speaking, I sip A quart of Seagram’s so I could see my world end, I got Your girlfriend stuck just like I used to do for shearlings, gots to Whip a Sterling. My crew be breaking down, you’ll fall like Berlin What? [Verse 4: A-Butta and (L-Swift)] Uh huh, I close your show like this, yo, son. I close Your show like curtains, flows be working like overtime, A-Butta Controls your mind, foul like hitting below the line, my soul’s divine I hold a nine, make mentals reciprocate the way We verbally articulate, many manipulate, lyrics Precipitate, divine minds shine like nickel-plates. It’s A-Butta (And L-Swift) making brain cells disintegrate, so check this I grab the mic and swing like tennis rackets, I play emcees Like Perry Ellis jackets and say a whole sentence backwards Emcee dopest the be I—that means I be the dopest Emcee—(why?)—I’m thick like sweet thighs in knee-highs Sparkle like green eyes, be sharper than three knives, so fuck A Peace Prize. I’m mentally letting the heat rise. Butta and Swift Be getting slicker than niggas with three wives. I want pockets With creampies, canines tighter than Levis Emcees we despise, most of these guys we demise Repping the East Side until the day that we die. Niggas be fake Like imitation 1-2-5 FILA sweatshirts The expert who make you bop your head until your neck hurt I spit lyrics while niggas let the TEC squirt, I make Your intellect irk when I shoot skills like Shawn Respert I let the paper stack like secretary deskwork [Verse 5: L-Swift and (A-Butta)] I’m coming off Like project hoes’ GUESS skirts, I do my best work When I gets twisted. Son, I gots you lifted like holy spirits In a chapel during Christmas, I preach a lyric—forget a bible I treat audiences like disciples, living off Survival instincts, my ink sinks and life becomes a mystery (Like what?)—like human existence. I keep it long-distance Like a phone line, I flash a chrome nine and sip a cold wine And reminisce of old times, I warn emcees like Post signs, divide the world like coastlines. I used to smoke dimes Now I caress, hold and control dimes. I’m trying to wait for showtime But all I vision through my eyes is more crime, so, yo Bring in the flow rhyme ‘cause I could hold mine, so bring it on [Verse 6: A-Butta and (L-Swift)] Ayyo, it be The Element young bucks—(say what? My gun busts—you care?) I don’t give one fuck. (I swing a style like Bruce Lee with some nunchucks) I destroy the galaxy like when the Sun busts. (Yo, you can’t take) (Nothing from us, we run this game like a head coach). I’m trying to Make this bread loaf. (Yo, I keep my infrared close, stay underground) (Like dead folks, I say lyrics ‘til I get strep throat). “Where you from?” I’m from New York, but I don’t sport a Mets coat. I got A North Face, avoid a court case, I leave a chalk trace Messing with me with lyrics on corners the wrong place. (I got girls) (In four states, go back-to-back like Michael Jackson tour dates) (I run game like a marathon New York race. I need some room) (To breathe, so fuck a small space. I bust a nut in a whore face) (You’ll get your jaw laced, yo. I’m out of this world like niggas) (Who explore space). Like Biggie Smalls, you lost Faith, so get on your knees And pray for the Lord’s grace. You’s a lost case. (I know you rich) Nah, I live in a poor place until I get some more papes (Bitches provide for us), they live and die for us, (yo, they laugh and) (Cry for us). I whip a GS. (Motherfucker, you ride the bus). Yo, why you Lying, cuz? (Yo, stick to this rhyme shit, niggas). Brothers be trying us (I make your mind flip and your spine split like slugs from a nine clip) (I design shit). I be on the low like Mafioso crime hits In Sicily, organized like a symphony, showing no Sympathy. Lyrically, I’m a mystery just like the Blesséd Trinity—what? (Ayyo, officially, my crew’s bugged. I got) (Your heart like true love, I’m busting tool slugs, and “Hemlock” niggas) (Like Mr. Voo does). Yo, we a pair like two gloves, we got you hooked Like new drugs until your veins pop, I make your brain rot (Ayyo, check it. 241st my train stop. I wet a mic) (Like raindrops, we share the same Glock), so “Check Da Style” (You still ain’t that ill. I maintains like a janitor) (My style’s illegal like my cable box with a scrambler. Ayyo) (I rule the new school like a chancellor). You couldn’t see us with you Canon camera. Cooler than Canada… [Interlude 1: L-Swift and A-Butta] L-Swift: Yo, A, A, A A-Butta: What’s up? Let’s go. What… L-Swift: A, A, A, what we gotta do, son? We gots to blow the… [Verse 7: A-Butta and (L-Swift)] Ayyo, let’s freestyle off the top of the mind ‘Cause I’m your top Choice like 96.9, I be divine When my brother Tru, what we gonna do? We got Big Kwam Study Catholic or Islam, I’ma hit you with bombs. (Ayyo, I got) (Hoes, um, on the 279th Avenue) (I be grabbing crews, I be halving you, stabbing you) (With my man Julian, I bust the toolie, and) (L-Swift, I’m coming through, you couldn’t remove, and) (I’m... ) You couldn’t remove me, and ‘Cause I got the Flava, yo, I take you on a Blindside Like The Creators, blowing up just like my pager, renegade Of Flava, I got my man, uh, on the DJ Replay. Emcees, yo, y’all do what we say. (I don’t care what) (He say. L-Swift, yo, I be the man at hand) (Um, your girl I’ll give continuous jams like) (London Soul Power ‘cause I hold power in my hand) (And be the hundred-grand, the wonder man, so understand) (I be looking at everybody in the studio) (You got the Twins hat like Minnesota ‘cause I got… gotta) (Drink the soda when I’m, um, tripping off the Hennessey) (I fly your head from New York to Tennessee to England). Ayyo Tennessee remember me. Ayyo, you… I wreck fags I get on the mic, I’m kind of tired ‘cause I got jetlag. We just Came from New York. I grab the microphone like a two-sport, puffing Emcees, but they don’t sell Newports out here. Yo, what’s the deal? (Ayyo, I) (Wreck crimes any time, I connect dimes. Ayyo) (My man, you’re gonna get them records next time because) (Yo, you’re gonna call up for the Voo plus the L. I Excel) (Like Hyundai the one way. I’m in the house like Uncle L) (On Mondays on Channel Flow in New York, I crew-stalk) (You said we can’t buy the Newports, but F it. Um) (I gets down, I be hectic, got Man like Method. Niggas) (Know the style ‘cause I inject it when I intercept it—what?) Yo, you incept it I disconnect it when I kick it like Bruce Lee. I be kicking More rhymes than my Juli’ and be smoking loosies. You be Scum, tooken when I go down. Biggie like “Juicy,” grab the Microphone, so what you got for me? Nothing, you’re fronting, constantly pumping. (Ayyo, I) (Bring the flavor like The Creators, I be Major like Lee) (I got your city under siege, you say, “Please, oh, Jesus”) (I grabs a microphone—watch me bust) (I grabs a microphone and emcees wanna see. Um) (It be L-S-W-I-to-the-F-to-the-T) (Um, I want my picture out on that wall with Brandy) (You don’t understand me. I eat candy any) (Time I rhyme. Niggas know the style. You wanna bend me, but you can’t…) I blow your mind You know the “Time” like Redman. I do a Def Jam I’ll make you sweat like a headband when I expand, my flows Continuous jams like London Soul Power every Hour. Yo, I haven’t, um, tooken a shower ‘cause I’ve been in The studio all night and all day. My forte: I wreck rhymes In the project hallways for four days. Yo. (Ayyo, ayyo) (I get down the crew. I understand 279) (Don’t like Hot 97 too, so check it. Um) (Any time I flow off the mind, I could wreck it ‘cause) (I intercept it any time I flex it. Looking) (At the tango, I eats your ass like a mango, I) (Grabs a microphone and hang flows. Ayyo, I be up in) (The studio in England, my balls be dangling) (When I be, um, getting down—check the single, and, um). Yo, check The way that we’re swinging as our flows start to disperse. I love this Radio station, it feel good to curse, you know’m saying? ‘Cause, yo I blow up the microphone like that when I write raps I shine like gold caps, my soul catch my flow raps, I got dope raps Off of the top of the mental on this Creator instrumental Like P.M. Dawn, I send you. I recommend you don’t test me and L-Swift ‘cause we be the illest on the underground, dumping sounds In the surrounding—catch your ass a beat-down. We sweep now. (Ayyo) (I be on some rough shit. Check the way I touch it) (I want some girls in England if they suck dick, so hey) (Um, if they wanna get with me, I be that) (Physical, mystical type of ill emcee. Hey) (I know you can’t say, um, D-I-C-K on the radio) (So I spell it. Lyrically, I excel it) (So we gonna dwell it like niggas know the time, so) (My man, A-Butta, come on the mic, one more rhyme—what?) Ayyo I come with the “one more rhyme,” puff it like ganja Like Jeffrey Dahmer, I Bond ya like London, no fronting I keep the crowd jumping and pumping, it’s like that. Off-the-top How we rock the spot. I hold a Glock like Robocop, aha I’m bugging out, I got dough a lot, but, yo, I… I haven’t transformed my money into pounds, I get down from Uptown You get bogged down and shut down. What up now, L-Swift? We gets Lyrically equipped with this freestyle shit. I’m just saying… (Ayyo) (I’m hungry and I’m funky ‘cause I need a bath) (My main A-Butta in the left, he starts to laugh, but hey) (It’s kind of, um, not funny anymore because) (I’m smelling raw, um, niggas know The Score, um) (Just like I’m the Fugees. Bitches wanna do me) (I come through, I’m like paint—you can’t remove me off the surface) (Um, emcees be getting nervous when they purchase my tape) (L-Swift, um, I never tried to rape the hoes). Like Alexander I’m Great, I grab the microphone, you can’t wait To get it on—let it be on like that. I’m dropping bombs like, um, London Terrorist, I’m wrecking this microphone, I’m blessing this mic Like a preacher, blowing up like celly beepers. Yo, it’s kind of Funny how I be causing mass hysteria. Yo How the hell everybody in London got a cellular? I don’t know, so I flow The microphone keeps on blowing up, I’m showing up, haha We’re just bugging out like that off-the-top [Interlude 2: L-Swift, A-Butta, and DJ 279] L-Swift: Ayyo, yeah, yeah A-Butta: Word up DJ 279: Alright, let’s… just let me switch this beat up, alright? L-Swift: Aww, yeah, yeah, yeah DJ 279: So I know everyone wants to get a piece A-Butta: Aight L-Swift: Oh, you got a Creators beat, man, you’re gonna hit me with? You’re gonna hit me with? DJ 279: We got some Creators beats and stuff. Yeah, there’s enough for us A-Butta: Aight L-Swift: Whoo? We can freak this? DJ 279: Yep L-Swift: Oh my God, I’ma zone right now. I’ma zone, I’ma zone. A, haha A-Butta: Yo, we’re gonna zone L-Swift: I’ma zone, zone. Ha A-Butta: One more time [Verse 8: L-Swift and (A-Butta)] Check the Um, ill Creators flavor, Dutch or data L-Swift be coming through, I be just major like My pager, um, when I be changing, rearranging it L-Swift, I bust a nut in a girl’s face when she be Trying to be replacing it. When I be talking, he be Drinking Coca Cola Diet. I cause a Riot like LA Um, emcees smell gay when they be walking, um L-Swift be talking and stalking through New York, and, so My man, A-Butta, where you at with the raps? We got the Ill Creators beats, you contact like combat, so what? (I contact) (Like combats, I bomb raps right off the mind. Right now) (I think it’s about 6:20 New York time. I grab the) (Microphone, I kick it wicked. It’s 11:20) (When I represent the microphone rhymes, I got plenty. Trying to send me… ayyo…) Ayyo Check the way I’m swinging, um, plus the style I’m bringing, um I woke up on the wrong side of the bed just like the wheels in England cars. Check the way ‘cause I be the star. L-Swift Is coming through, I be the czar, and, baby pa, you could Never test ‘cause I be the best, I Finesse like Lord L-Swift, hah, I never been a fraud, um I be with my hoard, um, I’m liquored in the studio With the 8-tracks. L-Swift, I never date fat Haaaa, vicious, I hit the switches, um I be getting riches, throwing you in ditches, so my man Um, where you at? (Big Kwam, get on the microphone and drop bombs) [Interlude 3: DJ 279, A-Butta, and Big Kwam] DJ 279: Big Kwam, step up front A-Butta: No diggedy DJ 279: Step up front. Mr. Big Kwam will scatter then Big Kwam: No doubt, no doubt, one love to my man L-Swift, A-Butta, nah’m saying? It’s like it. London Tower DJ 279: Bless us, man, bless us Big Kwam: Word up, word up, money. You know how I do. Big Kwam, check it out now. Yo [Verse 9: Big Kwam] Fuck what you heard. The nigga target herbs with all the hardest words I scar you nerds with razor cuts that all the ducks deserve My mental composite’ll leave your armor split, the chromes’ll jizz So call it quits. My vocals have your cabbage blown to bits My sounds waves’ll turn a town to slaves, mounds amazed I’m down to stage a challenge, strip titles, and set the crown ablaze Disassemble brittle spines and resemble nickel nines When I rhyme, you’re inclined to hit the tape rewind The po’-nine-duster shine like diamond clusters, dick the twat Pelvic thruster recognized as a hustler Gold-plated tables with scrolls and magic unfold tragic Tales of the frail who was bashed, stoned in battle, so, uh Analyze and realize the fact my streetwise attack Will reveal that your style’s wack—what? [Interlude 4: Big Kwam and L-Swift] Big Kwam: Yo, my man L-Swift. Check it out L-Swift: Yo, I’ma hit with more. A written joint. Check it, check it, uh, yo [Verse 10: L-Swift] Yo, who them kids up your Situation? Run up in your spot, no invitation. Me and A-Butta, uh, go back like car seats and snatch your life In a heartbeat. No limitation, you know we’re the bomb. I gets deep As the holy Quran, you’re phony as psalms, so when I’m lifted Still, I could shift it, young, black, and gifted. What’s my name? L-Swift, kid. Lyrically, I Excel like Hyundai It’s like driving the opposite direction down the one-way Natural Elements in the house like Uncle L on Mondays I plays a corny rapper like SEGA Saturn, been Around the streets so many days, I’m starting to make a pattern, so My man, get on the microphone, one, two, and Represent for the London and the English Creator crew [Interlude 5: Big Kwam] Uh huh. Word. Check it out, check it out [Verse 11: Big Kwam] I got A rapport with weed spots and liquor stores, my mind State be tore out the doorframe and more Bars remain critical, link verbal to visuals Smoked-out individual blessed by herbal rituals Kwam be the one-man army, sipping Dom P, and Twan? He put the essence of an emcee upon me Armed with the blueprint, I do dent your two-cent raps They need improvement. The chocolate got my crew bent I’m trailblazing, brain-grazing, and hell-raising My mood swings like clubs from schizophrenic cavemen I can’t be snuffed, bum-rushed, or handcuffed When this man puff, he drop rhymes like dandruff Fronting theatrics get slapped quick with rap hits That leave backs split and clap shit just like gat clips I’m all that plus chips and all that other good shit Intricate like Arabic script written in toothpicks, cliques Under bombardment, the sergeant—what?—with a squadrant Bringing papers like Charmin, I’m harming The frail, knock the wind out your sails, wings clipped Like nails when I wait to exhale the Holy Grail I lamp on the meridian with a billion Adaptable styles reminiscent of amphibians It ain’t hard to get your retard squad charged up for Three bars. Believe me, god, I could pull your card At will. The facts still remain my contacts real Wax and seal, emcees decompose in the Catskills [Interlude 6: Big Kwam and L-Swift] Big Kwam: Word up, so yeah, yeah. Bless ‘em, son, bless ‘em, waste ‘em, waste ‘em, waste ‘em L-Swift: Uh, uh, uh, uh, yo, ayyo, check it, yo [Verse 12: L-Swift] Pass the mic, you never get that shit back. I flips tracks, bitches Tell me my dick’s fat, covered in black like a KitKat Fresher than tic-tacs, relax and kick back, I smoke Lincolns And never lick cats, I flip tracks just like a four-fifth cap But, in fact, I be supreme like pizza from Domino’s, I’m bombing foes, burn ‘em like no-condom hoes I conjure flows like holy spirits Bitches throw me digits. Riches? Only flip it, so Swift, yo, check it. I always come equipped with Heavy ammunition so I don’t have to flip, I freak A style like lewd shows and hit you with these new flows like them Jiggy brothers be sporting new clothes, even your crew knows My style switch up like Knicks coaches, L-Swift focus Like camera lenses ‘cause I damage and bend shit, my Flows be endless like number lines, I run the rhyme Natural Elements be hot like summertime in New York, my crew stalk I numb your mind like new thoughts, so find a new sport I play your trick like Too Short, I got you hooked like Newports Natural Elements crew thoughts, so hey, what we gotta say My man Big Kwam ‘cause he got it on the way—what? [Interlude 7: Big Kwam] True indeed, true indeed, true indeed, yo [Verse 13: Big Kwam] The platinum-selling rap legend that hit your melon Thoughts compelling, weed-inhaling, verbal rebellion Kwam be extra abrasive to your texture Ill scheme, to-root connector wrecking your sector—what? I stay fresh-dipped, the life-or-death script My vocal clefts rip collarbones and hips if you slip Got styles you couldn’t figure yet, intrigue like Naked silhouettes behind mosquito nets—you feel me yet? (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah) God damn it, buddha’d eyes be chinky-slanted Hard as granite, shatter your rhyme made of ceramics While you slept in hammocks, my vocal aerodynamics Ran through your barracks, shining like 24-carats Lyrically speaking, my heat-seeking shot repeating Cocked to rock weaklings when dropped on block meetings It’s a fact I twist backs, spliffs from stacks Limp wrists will crack with this swift gift I pack, yo The pain-inflicter burning niggas ‘til they blister—what? Big Kwam quick to hit your sister With my man Tru. What you gonna do, baby pa? What you gonna do? Bless ‘em with a bar [Interlude 8: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Yo. Awwww yeah, check it out now. Check it out, come here. Check it out [Verse 14: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Hold a second, wait a minute. Yes, you know I gots ta Grab the microphone and make like I’m Rasta Do the knots-and-dread hip hop, yes, and nod your head Smoke it like a spliff for tonight, shot my eye damn red I used to play like that Ginger, ring your bell and run But now, I’m busting at lyrics like Chuck’s “Uzi that Weigh a Ton.” Check this out Back it up now. Yes, the Tru is here Knocking out the kind of lyrics that’ll bring an emcee out in tears My freestyle was moving like a freak in a porno movie, I’m the doctor At this shit like that little kid Doogie Howser, bound to mouth the style I flaunt too Like an exhibitionist, you better get ready to listen to this Look in more time when I’m fake to this like a bitch at home in her bedroom, lining her bed With a big, fat dildo, rubbing her clitoris I’m king at this, ain’t gonna miss. Niggas, just listen to this I’m fly on shit like chrysalis. Your bitch? She miss my verbal bliss You wish your shit could flip like this, but, no, I don’t Think so. Yo, I have to go. Who’s next? [Interlude 9: A-Butta, Delirious, and Tru (AKA E-Tru)] A-Butta: Hahahaha, word up. Yo, A-Butta one last time will blast your mind. You’re getting on, son? Delirious: Word A-Butta: Aight, aight, check it out, yo Tru (AKA E-Tru): Hey, microphone keep cutting out, man. Yo, yo, yo, yo, well, yo, I… A-Butta: Yo, he ‘bout to kick his shit first Tru (AKA E-Tru): Y’all could… yeah DJ 279: Who has the lyrics, man? Tru (AKA E-Tru): Alright Delirious: Let’s… starting the beat a little, you know, you nah’mean? Alright, basically, I’m just gonna go back to the sneak-it-out. Silk shirts and crocodile shoes, you know what I mean? Alright, let’s go for something. Fake emcees. Something… (*Instrumental cuts*) Tru (AKA E-Tru): Aaah, what’s the next, what’s the next thing? Delirious: Y’all caught me, man, y’all caught me on camera DJ 279: Alright, let me, let me take a break, right? Let me see what we’re doing Tru (AKA E-Tru): Nah, what’s the next thing, man? DJ 279: (*Instrumental starts*) Do your thing, man Delirious: Yeah, yeah, yeah, wait a minute, wait a minute. Gonna go back in the days and take it like, you know… I mean, watch this DJ 279: Alright Delirious: Yeah Tru (AKA E-Tru): Kick your facts first Delirious: LV, LV, watch out [Verse 15: Delirious] The big talk Is all you got, but when the right time come, I see no Action (Action), overreacting (-reacting). All dem-a Talk ‘bout this, all dem-a talk ‘bout that will never Happen because dem too follow fashion Can’t test the flavor. Wicked, I’m a danger Spin upon your headlights, it just like if he was a breaker The lyrics are fi takeover, bona fide microphone smoker Emcee the doobity oaker, only fi look over your shoulder So give me the real deal, the raw, the rugged Original UK style, the lyrics are the ducket Like this. Who the best? It’s me, the buddha-head Rhymes are triggered further as infrared. Here’s your dread Gets the J-O-B D-O-N, sip on the Rem’ Puff up a spliff, maybe a blunt Whatever. Styles are clever. E-Tru the off- -beat starter. Check it out, ahhh [Interlude 10: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Check, check it out, uh [Verse 16: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Red cracks due to stress. Where’s my pillow? Life is Rougher than a grill, I felt it crash into a willow Then ending ‘cause ain’t nothing splendid recommended Niggas doing timbers just to stay limp, packs of limps simp On lifestyles of a bitch’s anus. Might suck Your dick for some trainers, pop her cherry if you’re famous Then laters. I got to shake ‘cause I don’t caters Grace beyond some capers, playing niggas like old SEGAs And that’s the way it goes when you play with those Brown-eyed tricks, round with eyelids. They have Kids, plating, knock down Ginger, now they Knock down Ginger, take his money, then they enter The arcade—that’s the way they get paid and play So here’s a craze, but I’m not here to praise The way we live. We take heaps, stay as we may, hah But it’s OK ‘cause it’s just, just another day [Verse 17: Delirious] Jungle-dweller dwelling deep in the cellar Exposing ya like David Miller Lunatic, lyrical assassin. Acknowledge The North Side, blow mad wattage Dispel the ignorant brother, fake rhymer With the IQ of a mountain-climber I maintain longevity in the industry Talking ‘bout delivery, you ain’t as ill as me I took your spot, secured it, locked it down tight Make sure it sound right. Yes, I Proceed with flavor ‘cause that’s all I got And it’s only right I blow up the spot And take care of business, knock you off the hit-list Butter like a biscuit, bust the ballistic Boom to the bastard, bomb to the crotch And the nine cripple, got you jumping off, pull on it [Verse 18: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] I crucify beats like black Nazarenes, send Shivers down spleens “by any means” like X Flex, you study. Skills are on-par like buddies Forever more, I abhor these pansy, bourgeois Niggas in Tommy… [Interlude 11: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Bring back that beat, man! That was… check it. From the top, from the top, yeah. So check it out, uh. So check it out. Uh, so check it out, yo [Verse 19: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Feel the heat when I’m all up inside you I’m talking girlies side and some… gliders do Press up like a PE instructor. You self-destruct With the way that I… struck down her boobies Rubbed her up on her coochie. They love it when you Treat ‘em like floozies, so do me, do me once Do me twice, let me take this test flight. I keep it up Through the night, you’ll be reaching new height of ecstasy Next to me, sex is like chess to me A mental game where the winner takes all. Lick my… And I fall in lust with the size of your bust Hitting from behind is a must, and I trust You love the freaky, leaky things that we get Into, where a nigga dare you to see through And I believe we’ll keep it sweet like tree goo Caress and just tease. Go down, and I’ll feed you Head’s something nice just like sugar and spice Hard to the touch, and I’ma fuck you so much, pull it out And get freaky, do you straight before brunch Nice and just easy, there’s no need for us to rush, it’s just… [Verse 20: Delirious] I break down the bed, bust a nut like lead My dick’s well-fed ‘cause plenty honeys give me head I’ll last longer than a Duracell battery Girls come to me for the pleasure and the agony Backbone stamina make a woman happier Waking up your neighbors any time I’m slamming ya No foreplay—it’s not the forte I roll the raw way, I angle all day This ain’t R&B, so I’ma tell you straight That if you look good, I want sex ‘pon first date And when I get it, I wet it, I set it Like this, pushing up my wood between your tits Sixty-nine or thirty-four-and-a-half ‘Cause you can suck the wood ‘til it… uh Go all soft [Interlude 12: Delirious and Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Delirious: Hahaha, ah! Tru (AKA E-Tru): Check it out now, check it out now, check it out now Delirious: Aight, aight, let me come in now, let me come in, let me come in, let me come in. Aight, back on some sleeze, you nah’mean? Yeah, Francine, if you’re on… you nah’mean? But… nah’mean? That’s my sister, my sister. Francine and Gwen family there. Alright, here we go Tru (AKA E-Tru): Yeah, big up to… my little, my little baby daughter [Verse 21: Delirious] Sticking my dick In a gold-digger, you get no loot No matter how cute or how good the boots I think you better step ‘cause I ain’t trying to hear that And you can stop the crying like I sprayed your face with teargas Not from the West Coast, but really though I work your body harder than a Jane Fonda video Like a cowboy in a rodeo, “Hi-De-Hi-De-Hi Ho-De-Ho-De-Ho,” I’m buckwild, and now you know The beat go (*Beatboxing*) I never miss the beat because I got a good technique Bundle loot with honeys away from the fellas You heard that I was wolfing your woman and now you’re jealous I don’t beg like TLC, water ‘em down with the old pee-pee Don’t want to catch the HIV, syphilis on to the V to the D I like it freaky but I’m not into the bondage You wanna whoop my ass, tie me up like a hostage, you’re mad Scoping—how could you even ask that? I had to dump this girl because she wanted to lick my ass-crack Ughhh! I think out past and find the next. You must be Ready to vet, so don’t you’re tonight to have sex Wine, romance, music, and a slow dance Skilled in the dance, they’re looking me like, “I ain’t got no chance” It could be heaven to or even very better I rubbed down her bumper, “BOOM!” like Fanta No hoes and bitches, just the goddesses They’s the one that stresses wearing the tight dresses Don’t like ‘em anorexic, I like ‘em ripe like Fruits in jumpsuits, I knock their boots [Interlude 13: Tru (AKA E-Tru) and Delirious] Tru (AKA E-Tru): Yeah, aight, so check it out, uh. So check it out, so check it, uh. I crucify… bring back the mean rap Delirious: Bring it back, bring it back. Come now Tru (AKA E-Tru): Check it [Verse 22: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] I crucify beats like black Nazarenes, send Shivers down spleens “by any means” like X Flex, you study. Skills are on-par like buddies Forever more, I abhor these pansy, bourgeois Niggas in Tommy Hilfigers like they’re from Queens They don’t figure—therefore, I don’t dig ya Let’s go back to the days of jeans and black leather Jacks, before goose downs and Hensons. We make this go back Bensons, scheming on trains, snatching chains Smoking the ‘caine with the doo-doo with policies darker Than voodoo, scheming you coons like Twinkie and LuLu Running ‘round wild and reckless The young and the restless rushing doors—fuck the guest-list ’87 to ’88, old niggas can’t Relate to the softest bad-boy dramas We never popped Glocks or talked in East Coast slang Ayyo, this beat sounds funny but it’s my… [Interlude 13: Delirious and Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Delirious: Uh, check it out, check it out, check it out Tru (AKA E-Tru): Check it, uh [Verse 23: Delirious] All emcees, put the mic down slow, freeze, empty your pockets My skills pump knowledge, easily break up your concepts, yo ‘Cause I be the brother who be hot like the Caribbean Brother, your style need to be reborn on just like a Christian ‘Cause then the nine cripple big tings, a fi gwan, nobody has that Plus I got the flow that even carbon couldn’t copy They call me the naughty one planning the fall of Babylon Who needs guns when you got nuclear and atomic bombs? I burn emcees third-degree, often stay cautious My flow is awesome, break ‘em up often, put ‘em in coffins The swift-talking, futuristic emcee, so tell Amanda Not to grab me ‘cause I’ll be throwing temper tantrums And then I slam them like sumo wrestling or judo Blacken your eye, making you wear Versace, even Kool Moes So on and on to the breaker, 1, 9, mayday When I bust the/Busta Rhymes—hey! (Hey!) Hey! (Woo-Hah!!) [Interlude 14: Delirious] Hey! We’re out [Verse 24: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] This never seem to rest. Perhaps you Feel for something just a little more real, indeed I get you high like weed, suffice to say, my rhymes Are paved away to a better day for this Renegade. Peace to my nigga Che And all my other niggas from around my way because Cards and tricks are fix just for kicks, it makes Me sick picking up my benefits, so I Flex my pecs, down my Beck’s, cash my checks Create a ruckus, and then have mad sex Yeah, yeah, you heard of this before, but I’m Coming just a little more raw like Sodom or… ‘Cause my life ain’t nothing but weed smoke Choke my throat and coke until my pockets broke Hit the streets and graff, have a laugh Police harass but they can all fuck off The year’s ’95, but, like the Bee Gees, I’ma “Stay Alive” And well, living in this type of hell, just Stay in apparel, fresh out of jail, on a… Some are honey-dating, someone’s gonna constipate [Interlude 15: Delirious and Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Delirious: Uh, we’re the life of the money. Watch this Tru (AKA E-Tru): You know that Delirious: Alright, Star Trek space ride through ‘99 Tru (AKA E-Tru): Check it out. It’s just another day [Verse 25: Delirious] Brain cells are even lifted like barbells without no weights when an emcee Deliver style ten times more flow than the River Nile, pull files Like Tottenham beast station. Location for the beat-down: Easy 17 I leap heads of half your team while they dream to beat me, bring your ass back to life Me and the microphone shouldn’t be tested, I be spliffted on it, given a gold microphone To validate innovation of hip hop pioneering, revolutionary modern-day prophesizer Light a lighter. Word to the weed, indeed, never smoke seed. Emcees buckle like bike rolls On dirt roads in JA, I turn the first of April into dark-hole mayday I don’t wanna drop like Bob Marley, jack hard-rock of his Harley Davidson [Interlude 16: Delirious and Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Delirious: Ahhh, alright, yeah, yeah, yeah, warm now, warmer, warm now, warmer, warm. Check it out Tru (AKA E-Tru): Let’s properly smoke this booth. Yeah, yeah, yeah Delirious: Head-tops Tru (AKA E-Tru): Yeah, one more rap, one more rap Delirious: Aight, nah, we’re out, we’re out, we’re out, that’s it, that’s it Tru (AKA E-Tru): We’re, we’re kicking one more rhyme, man, we just gotta kick one more rhyme for niggas out there. Just one more rhyme Delirious: Alright, go for yours, but the lyricist out here. See ya! Tru (AKA E-Tru): Uh, uh, uh, yeah [Verse 26: Tru (AKA E-Tru)] Jesus creepers, my flow’s smoother than Beemers, lean as Abalone, ninas, chimney-sweepers and cleaners, mean as Drug-dealers and brave as stealers for real-a I drop some hardcore shit for my underground hip hop fella A cellar dweller of a pure magic like Penn & Teller Definitive real Playboy like Hugh Hefner So tell your heifer that I’m coming to get her. If her name’s Flu era, I get her redder than a gulf-jetter Better than cheddar, like to most make letter when I Reach the end of my tender, I won’t be clever like… [Outro: Tru (AKA E-Tru), Delirious, and DJ 279] Tru (AKA E-Tru): Aight, that’s enough for you now today, boy. I’ll be back definitely Delirious: Peace 279, watch out, yes DJ 279: No problem Delirious: Eye London Crew, peace out DJ 279: The mad long freestyle session. Friday Nite Flavas