2pac - 2Pac Cypher Part 2

Song Rating: 8.60/10

Song lyrics:

[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**h better bounce, Boyfriend jump in, Meth shut him down, Pound to echo loud, bout seven miles, Doc, Dirty Jersey hunt em down, Uncut, rhymes wont 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 stitch 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 Bastard]

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**er bees on a swarm, Rain on your college-a** disco dorm, For you to even touch my sk**, You gotta put the one k**er bee and he aint gonna k**, Now chop that down, pa** it all around, Lyrics get hard quick cement to the ground, For any emcee in any fifty two states, I get psycho, k**er, 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 Ill beat your a**!)


Now everythings good in my hood, And its on and poppin, Eazy-muthaphukkin-E from east side south Compton, Straight givin up the real, On how a n***a feel talk that sh**, mothaf**ers caps get peeled, Layin low in the cut, Gettin high than a motherf**er, n***as know whats up, Im that gangsta-gangsta, Is that what theyre still yellin, n***a G to a T saggin and bailin, Live by the gun, you know what Im sayin, Ren? (Yeah), So I guess Ill die by that motherf**er then, So when I die, n***as bury me, Make sure my sh** reads Eazy-muthaphukkin-E, And its a fact, to be exact, my tombstone should read, He put Compton on that map, And thats how a n***a feel, When Im givin up the motherf**in real!


Big Poppa, throwing n***as off of cliffs, smoking spliffs, Disappear with my b**h in a Mitsubishi Eclipse, Read my lips, I k** you, Bloodll spill too, did I say thank you, I grant you three wishes cause I be the genie, n***as is a**ed out like fat b**hes in bikinis, Read between the lines see what I see, I see the diary of a sick bastard, Junior Mafia blaster, Rugers on the hips, Bought coke to flip chips, bought slugs to fill clips, Flipping coke in corner store bodegas, In the back room playing Sega, Street Fighter II, Im inviting you, bring your writing crew and they dopest rhymes, I get up in that a** every time, Lyrically Im untouchable, uncrushable, Getting mad blunted in the 600, Benz, ask your friends whos the illest, Licking shots, n***as screaming Biggie Smalls tried to k** us, Junior M.A.F.I.A. representin Bucktown, MAC-11 cocked back, n***as better duck down, Face down, you know the routine, the cream, earrings, You know the drama Biggie bring, lets get it on!

[Method Man]

Here comes the ruckus, the motherf**in ruckus, Thousands of cut-throats and crumb-snatchin f**ers, Straight from the brain, Ill 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 cant hang, Time for a change of the guard, Youve been arrested for lyric fraud now you barred, For real, check it, I pull strings like B.B. King on guitar, Im 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** be hot to d**h, 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***as holdin it down, Cuttin you up, The new sh** wrekin you up, Blowin you up, My black hole s**in you up, Back in the days brother use to be a**ed 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 s**ers holdin your head, Afraid of us, you know this aint no game to us, You strange to us thats when we gettin dangerous!

[2 Pac]

How should I plead? Forever thuggin on a quest to get Gs, Runnin from enemies ever since the days of a seed, Im under pressure, the stress will have me drinkin, Thinkin n***as after me, much too paranoid to blink, Wonder why the police dont wanna see me stackin Gs, They after a playa, but I wont let em capture me, I gotta thank the Lord for the weed and the nicotine, I cant sleep, close my eyes, I see wicked things, I keep my pistol by my bedside, one in the chamber, Preoccupied with homicide, my lifes in danger, Rollin down the 405, beware of stangers, Hand on my 4-5; thats what the fame does, Im probably wrong, but Ill never know it till Im gone, From out the gutter where the jealous motherf**ers roam, Pa** the weed let that Hennessey get to me, Before the penitentiary, lets get it on!


Youre bout to see peace destroyed, itll 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, Dont ask what the squeegees for, Or the holy water, acid raps thatll eat these floors, Eat a hole in a rhyme book, you see these horns, And as for me, you ask when Im gone, will he be mourned, Is puke lukewarm, Should Casey Anthony do p**n, 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 shell toed Adidas, So I can put these babies in a fetal position, Theyre getting elbows to the penis, Yeah, big deal, I took some little kids 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, Im a sick pup, Id be a horrible magician, cause Id f** a trick up, Fix your lips up to say something fly, or zip up, Aye, B, lets see: you said you were gonna do X-Y-Z, Til you f** around and get dropped, Like an E when you add an I-N-G, Dont put a K in front of that though when I MC, Cause Im not the king of this microphone booth, Its more like a phone booth, Superman in this b**h, Kryptonite wont do, It gives me more power, I bump 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 pitll 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 prostitute, With a huge johnson, boobs 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** the rumors, it aint happening, Ima rap til Im fossil fuel!

Date of text publication: 16.01.2021 at 11:07