artists: a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

2pac cypher part 2 lyrics – 2pac

[verse 1 redman]

try to o.k. corral with doc and meth tical, bar saloon fight, without weapons out (yee-hah!!), strech marks, like belly on kevin lous, one yard to score, only second down, hoes play wifey, wanna settle down, tryin to lock cash, b-tch better bounce, boyfriend jump in, meth shut him down, pound to echo loud, bout seven miles, doc, dirty jersey hunt em down, uncut, rhymes won’t even fit the file, baddest man out the bunch, pick him out, drunk with a gun, miss you hit the crowd, snitches, someone kiss to st-tch your mouth, wilder then winos on liquor droughts, mrs. howell, mary-ann, dig em out, ginger watch, with the gun in skipper mouth, love da ruckus, and love to
dish it out!

[ol’ dirty b-st-rd]

shimmy shimmy ya shimmy yam shimmy ya, gimme the mic so i can take it away, off on a natural charge bon-voyage, yeah from the home of the dodger brooklyn squad, wu-tang k!ller bees on a swarm, rain on your college–ss disco dorm, for you to even touch my sk!ll, you gotta put the one k!ller bee and he ain’t gonna k!ll, now chop that down, p-ss it all around, lyrics get hard quick cement to the ground, for any emcee in any fifty two states, i get psycho, k!ller, norman bates, my producer slam my flow is like bam, jump on stage ah then i dip down! (see my name is the odb, and i’ll beat your -ss!)

[eazy-e]

now everything’s good in my hood, and it’s on and poppin’, eazy-m-th-ph-kkin’-e from east side south compton, straight givin’ up the real, on how a n-gg- feel talk that sh-t, mothaf-ckers’ caps get peeled, layin’ low in the cut, gettin’ high than a motherf-cker, n-gg-s know what’s up, i’m that gangsta-gangsta, is that what they’re still yellin’, n-gg- g to a t saggin’ and bailin’, live by the gun, you know what i’m sayin’, ren? (yeah), so i guess i’ll die by that motherf-cker then, so when i die, n-gg-s bury me, make sure my sh-t reads eazy-m-th-ph-kkin’-e, and it’s a fact, to be exact, my tombstone should read, ‘he put compton on that map’, and that’s how a n-gg- feel, when i’m givin’ up the motherf-ckin’ real!

[biggie]

big poppa, throwing n-gg-s off of cliffs, smoking spliffs, disappear with my b-tch in a mitsubishi eclipse, read my lips, i k!ll you, blood’ll spill too, did i say thank you, i grant you three wishes cause i be the genie, n-gg-s is -ssed out like fat b-tches in bikinis, read between the lines see what i see, i see the diary of a sick b-st-rd, junior mafia blaster, rugers on the hips, bought c-ke to flip chips, bought slugs to fill clips, flipping c-ke in corner store bodegas, in the back room playing sega, street fighter ii, i’m inviting you, bring your writing crew and they dopest rhymes, i get up in that -ss every time, lyrically i’m untouchable, uncrushable, getting mad blunted in the 600, benz, ask your friends who’s the illest, licking shots, n-gg-s screaming “biggie smalls tried to k!ll us”, junior m.a.f.i.a. representin’ bucktown, mac-11 c-cked back, n-gg-s better duck down, face down, you know the routine, the cream, earrings, you know the drama biggie bring, let’s get it on!

[method man]

here comes the ruckus, the motherf-ckin ruckus, thousands of cut-throats and crumb-sn-tchin f-ckers, straight from the brain, i’ll be givin you the pain, anger, comin from the 36th chamber, bang!, tical, hittin with the buddha-fist style, shotgun slammin in your chestpiece, plow!, brain is blown all over the terrain, like a man without no arms you can’t hang, time for a change of the guard, you’ve been arrested for lyric fraud now you barred, for real, check it, i pull strings like b.b. king on guitar, i’m the true fist of the north star!

[busta rhymes]

hold your breath, we swing it from right to left, word to wyclef, you know my sh-t be hot to death, staying alive, you know only the stronger survive, holding my heat, i under my seat , wippin the five, baseline for all of my people movin around, give me a pound, all of my n-gg-s holdin it down, cuttin’ you up, the new sh-t wrekin you up, blowin you up, my black hole suckin you up, back in the days brother use to be -ssed out, now a brother holdin several money market accounts, blaze the street and then i would just like to announce, feelin my grove, my jiga jiga makin you bounce, others is fare, me and my squad breakin the bread, straight gettin it, we got you suckers holdin your head, afraid of us, you know this ain’t no game to us, you strange to us that’s when we gettin dangerous!

[2 pac]

how should i plead? forever thuggin’ on a quest to get g’s, runnin’ from enemies ever since the days of a seed, i’m under pressure, the stress will have me drinkin’, thinkin’ n-gg-s after me, much too paranoid to blink, wonder why the police don’t wanna see me stackin’ g’s, they after a playa, but i won’t let ’em capture me, i gotta thank the lord for the weed and the nicotine, i can’t sleep, close my eyes, i see wicked things, i keep my pistol by my bedside, one in the chamber, preoccupied with homicide, my life’s in danger, rollin’ down the 405, beware of stangers, hand on my 4-5; that’s what the fame does, i’m probably wrong, but i’ll never know it till i’m gone, from out the gutter where the jealous motherf-ckers roam, p-ss the weed let that hennessey get to me, before the penitentiary, let’s get it on!

[eminem]

you’re bout to see peace destroyed, it’ll never be restored, when i unleash these beastly hordes on your cd stores, wanna stop it, you gon’ need a priest, at least three swords, a license to ill from the beastie boys, three ouija boards, a squeegee, and please be warned, don’t ask what the squeegee’s for, or the holy water, acid raps that’ll eat these floors, eat a hole in a rhyme book, you see these horns, and as for me, you ask when i’m gone, will he be mourned, is puke lukewarm, should casey anthony do p-rn, can that chick fit a newborn dead baby inside a fricking shoebox with a shoehorn, smothered in chloroform, so she can go get her groove on, can she duct tape and velcro a fetus, joell, yo, tell joe i need his empty box from his old sh-ll toed adidas, so i can put these babies in a fetal position, they’re getting elbows to the p-n-s, yeah, big deal, i took some little kid’s big wheel and spit in his frickin’ big kids meal, quit tryin’ to bite me and pinch, you wench, sit still; did you just put your six inch heel through my benz windshield, is it dust we ’bout to kick up, can yelawolf fit a fifth of rum in a big cup, between his stick shift in his frigging pickup, and drink like a hick redneck hillbilly will ’til he gets hicc-ups, flipping the script up, like mike vick getting bit in his junk by a pit, yup, i’m a sick pup, i’d be a horrible magician, cause i’d f-ck a trick up, fix your lips up to say something fly, or zip up, aye, b, let’s see: you said you were gonna do x-y-z, ’til you f-ck around and get dropped, like an e when you add an i-n-g, don’t put a k in front of that though when i mc, cause i’m not the king of this microphone booth, it’s more like a phone booth, superman in this b-tch, kryptonite won’t do, it gives me more power, i b-mp the fat boys and eat rat poison, take meteor showers, fresh outta the mental hospital, and me not flossing a middle finger while i hop in a mosh pit’ll be like nas doing gospel or r&b, you crazy, me pushing up daisies, that thought is impossible, as if flashing across the news, posdnuos was caught with a prost-tute, with a huge johnson, b–bs and a monstrous tube of lube, and a bra, some boots, some panties and an aqua blue mazda, swallowing a popsicle, playing tonsil pool, so k!ll the rumors, it ain’t happening, i’ma rap ’til i’m fossil fuel!

/ 2pac lyrics