Clap Sh*t Up

Torae

Clap Sh*t Up (ft. Phonte)

(Torae)

Want to hear my old sh*t buy my old albums

If you really love it why I only sold thousands?

By the grace of God I made it out of housing

But I’m still Coney isle styling

Wild as a stallion and cocky, had to go Rambo to get my wrist rocky

Cheddar drenched broccoli

That’s what’s on my pallet in my rally

Wardrobe was war mode, now I got a stylist

Now you want to smile miss? Miss me

On the hardwood where the Knicks be flickered up Melo drop 60

Shifty low down gritty and

I’m just doing this till my city is the sh*t again

Dropped barrel brothers it was notable

Make you a believer my verse ain’t get a quotable so f*ck it I’m over you

No f*ck it I’m ovеr due none of y’all bettеr

Bar for bar, line for line, to the letter

I came from EBT made it on to BET

F.U.S.E. , MTV, MP3

Vinyl and CD all off the P.E.N

Now it’s 6 days on SXM

And I’m just getting started, you could hit the target

Or fill out applications for Target

You on one I’m off it probably want to forfeit

How you supposed to score vs Tor and now its raw sh*t

Aw sh*t I’m still beasting the bars, flow shit Malik and Jamal

Still bodying every beat that I’m on

Any street that I’m on, I’m a sight still

Shine like a million-dollar light bill

Even Bun B know I’m type trill, type ill, might steal your missis

Treat it like a 4-course meal and do the dishes

Scratch off my wish list, add to my f*ck it list

Name an MC that can f*ck with this

Probably had to add to your bucket list, bucket this, blam

That’s the only way you could body me fam

Pardon me, damn I gotta go

Brought in Tigallo to clap the sh*t up some more

(Phonte)

Me and my man’s on an award tour

But the crowd screaming for more Tor

And Tigallo on the assist, he’s the orator

You can count on just like a scoreboard

But what the f*ck you keeping score for when the L is imminent

Scrimmaging against you feminine niggas in boy shorts

Kitten heel raps scratching up the floor boards

In a top hat you rap niggas is Boy George

I attack tracks with more force

And more anger than a gangster in a Russian divorce court

Mad cause his wife is going after his stored Porsche

So she can make some more borscht

Then he really want to call her a bi... but if he calls her a bi…

The judge gon tell him that he’s a poor sport

Respect my mind, I testify

But on a track

Your favorite rapper will get left behind

Like he got an F in a core course

Not her to lollygag, I specialize in body bags

And if we in the streets mother*ck an autograph

The only signature that I need is 4-4

So I can run amuck, I

Just lay low in the buck-eye

Don’t really claim to be a tough guy but never been the shook type

Last name “Look like”, First name “F*ck I”

Raised in the Marly Marl era so you better call Saul

And tell Saul to call pallbearers

Just a little Tigallo will make it all better

So f*ck the radio stations and all the call letters

Cause my rhyme commodities go off like IED’s

Lines go over your head and stay there like the sword of Damocles

Peace to Skyzoo, Odyssey

And plus the old school, the Hercs, the Bams, and the Toddy Tees

When I become a legend just acknowledge me fam

Pardon me, damn I gotta go

Yall clap sh*t up, I give it a standing O