Grime

[Intro: Fatt Father, Guilty Simpson] Killas, yeah! Y'all done fucked up now That's right, I don't even know why I'm on this track I called up some of my big homies And we gonna ride on you bitch-made ass, playa-hatin' ass niggas And we ain't even players, we're coaches, bitch! (Straight from the sewers of detroit, y'all!) Coaches... (Simpson, get 'em, get 'em, get 'em...) We tell you what to do! (Yo!) Get on the field nigga! Run, RUN! [Verse 1: Guilty Simpson] The Grim Reaper's godson, I disarm you with that shotgun And pop one, you're harmless, and now armless I follow these rap artists, and drop my targets in Target More cans than a supermarket Paper or plastic, watch 'em fade away when I blast it I'm a kush hit, from starting war on some Bush shit I make up beef and break up teeth And charge cats to rebuild that made up-street There's not one too big for caskets I'm a walking hazard, I'm a straight up beast! I make a motherfucker wake up sleep! Warrior mode, I'm letting all you foreigners fold I shut it down like I'm border control Learn about it, before you get murdered 'bout it You don't have to choose 'cause I kill you with the fork in the road Motherfuckers! [Verse 2: Fatt Father] Guns like Yosemite, funds like Joe Kennedy The belly of the beast, taking Tums won't do diddly, so Fuck an athletic ability, I'm gaining weight And losing it in 24 hours trying to stay in shape Hustle with amazing grace but I ain't been to church in ages You go to Dunham's for bats, I go to purchase gauges The next time it's a wrap, you under dirt and pavement No body, no need to make arrangements Dangerous, the niggas I call broke and home team Sanctioned by the gutter but anxious to do their own things Along came a rider that sat down besides green And told that bitch to listen, "now, you just a team in my league," You only getting high if you rolling up my weed And she ain't said "Hi" unless she been fucked by me! (Bitch!) Try me, I'm running through them like I'm in the IV I should've been a car because the Motor City designed me, bitch! [Bridge] It ain't over, n'aw it ain't over See we're gonna take the show on the road We're going to New York So my niggas Sean P. and Roc Marciano can show you how they get down! [Verse 3: Sean Price] Phantom of the opera, a cannon that'll pop ya A tree hugging bitch sending damage to your chakra The AK'll chop ya, what I cop the machete for? Swing, leave you punch drunk lookin' for Betty Ford Back smack niggas, my Gat clap niggas Dude you food for fat rap niggas, Sean P I be holdin' it down, notice the style Gettin' bigger since a nigga started eatin Golden Corral! (Psh!) 2Pac who? 2Pac me? Shit, the tool pop you, now who got D? (Juice!) No Omar Epps, orangutan gang bang with the crowbar, yep! Sean Price, I'm a grown ass man Fuck a fist fight I grip the fifth tight and let the chrome blast fam! Listen, I got my shit in order fengshui, but a nigga still wreck the buffet Shut the fuck up, P! [Verse 4: Roc Marciano] Cool capers, that made the papers Escape with glaciers, jake chase us, evasive Scarface is aces, shake them agents Bang the gauges on the cages Slang in front of bodegas with gangstas Tie fly shoelaces, pursuin greatness Embrace this, your crew is chew like tubesteakers A gang of big faces and suitcases, tenacious My wave game is like an oasis your flow is basic You blow haters get faded, you physically [brainless?], spray the stainless This ain't entertainment this how we pay rent Then jump in that grey Benz, like a young Jay Prince, you content My skin is radiant, rhymes is evil like Damien Hard body flesh is titanium, you about as solid as baby shit My spit leave your lady bewitched, to keep the chrome 380 to babysit When you pay me with chips that's short like the Haiti kid Motherfucker! Marc nigga Rock your mother fucking knot, boy!