Testo della canzone Rapper Shit (Kendrick Lamar feat. Ab-Soul), tratta dall'album Compton State of Mind, Vol. 2

Rapper Shit - Kendrick Lamar feat. Ab-Soul

My back against the wall, I can see y'all fronting
Drowning in your own spit and ain't coming up with nothing
I call this shit "Rapper Shit" cause I ain't a rapper
But if I was, this ain't some shit that I could rap after
Caught up in the rapture, you call yourself a factor
You're lame, paving away, Bob the Buil' factor
I'm a real master, real massive, you just real average
I see your chain, it's strange, they wore those in the Middle Passage
And it's harder to play me than to fiddle backwards
Don't act like you knew my tactics
Cause when it hits the fan, you know I stand last
I see through your true colors like stained glass
I see the fear in your eyes when we arrive
And what's the odds of even thinking you coincide
When every time a nigga open a door you go inside
Just to realize, either you're weak or someone lied
See, you spend more time boasting about what you do than you do
So by the time your shit is due it's doo-doo
And who knew that too cool fool who used to sit in the back
Would slip through the crack, like dudes who went to rehab
Ab-Soul, Abstract Asshole
Black Lip Bastard, et cetera for forever
I follow no ruler, even if I'm under a drastic measure
But whatever

They say pressure bust pipes
And I ain't never had to deal with plumbing in my life, now that's a bar
Sparring with me like blasphemy to cathedral
Or colliding with the diesel with your baby in your arms
You would test me but you know better
It's inadequate to go against the Jesus of Nazareth
Of the rap game, and guess what, I got no cheddar
But my mind is like a wizard
I defy the laws of gravity every time I get high and write a sentence
Back teeth never been in agony, but I got wisdom
I have risen from the wicked to jump on the competition, scorch ya
Third degree burns next to their sideburns, all sorts of
Combustible flows, firemen on speed dial
Free the leaders of the free world with a freestyle
Free the teachers, black activists get up off your feet now
And feed off my feelings as I control my wheel
Like new power steering, so sincere
Tryna duck court hearings but I got big ears
Rap peers, used to study them wishing they would fuck with me
Now they can't fuck with him, I'm wishing good luck to them
Reluctantly these critics loving me and I don't blame 'em
They say, Kendrick you gunning for these niggas
So when I pull my weapon out, I give 'em the pleasure to see me aim it
And watch these bullets run into these niggas, clear the set
I got now, I got next, give you nouns, give you verbs
Give you adjectives while proposing an agitated threat
I am most debated in barber shops all because they slept on me
Big homie fear young, buck cause when I buck I make more than a buck
Dollars come quick like a fucking nun fucking for the first time
Put me in Alaska for six months in the dark, in my heart I know sun/son still shine
Still got a skill to be found in a gold mine

I got an appetite for habitual liars on the mic
Who with pliers couldn't get a grip on life
I spit like I sat the tip of my dick on ice, and that's intense
Imagine if I had already came twice, ain't that some shit
Pass the swisher nigga, fill your cup with liquor nigga
Fly your kite till you're gone till November nigga
Show 'em you remember nigga
Pour some Hennessy and Crown for your homie six feet underground
Smoke an ounce and turn that frown upside down
Like the triangle in the panties of my gal
When Mike Jack made "Raining in Moscow" I had no style
Tommy Boy stocking on my scalp
And that was like ninety-five, now it's twenty-ten
Two years away from when they say the world's expected to end
And I ain't even begin
That's more ironic than a bum asking for 50 Cent from "Many Men", one

Too many relays for DJs to replay
I do the reject while I eject your new singlay
Hot enough to sit in hell, then unveil in heatwave
Piss on a demon with ice water
And if I lose my voice then I'm probably calling out to all P.A
Systems to assist in with the word I'm tryna spread
Like county jail bread or the legs of a hoochie
And that's off top like a to



Credits
Writer(s):
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

Link

Disclaimer: i testi sono forniti da Musixmatch.
Per richieste di variazioni o rimozioni è possibile contattare direttamente Musixmatch nel caso tu sia un artista o un publisher.

© 2021 Riproduzione riservata. Rockol.com S.r.l.
Policy uso immagini

Rockol

  • Utilizza solo immagini e fotografie rese disponibili a fini promozionali (“for press use”) da case discografiche, agenti di artisti e uffici stampa.
  • Usa le immagini per finalità di critica ed esercizio del diritto di cronaca, in modalità degradata conforme alle prescrizioni della legge sul diritto d'autore, utilizzate ad esclusivo corredo dei propri contenuti informativi.
  • Accetta solo fotografie non esclusive, destinate a utilizzo su testate e, in generale, quelle libere da diritti.
  • Pubblica immagini fotografiche dal vivo concesse in utilizzo da fotografi dei quali viene riportato il copyright.
  • È disponibile a corrispondere all'avente diritto un equo compenso in caso di pubblicazione di fotografie il cui autore sia, all'atto della pubblicazione, ignoto.

Segnalazioni

Vogliate segnalarci immediatamente la eventuali presenza di immagini non rientranti nelle fattispecie di cui sopra, per una nostra rapida valutazione e, ove confermato l’improprio utilizzo, per una immediata rimozione.