Untitled (feat. Scarub & Murs)
Written by: Michael Turner, Christopher Portugal, Armon Collins & Nick Carter
[Garbled sample:] Going have to tell them people them have to fight today… What are you gonna tell a man… It'a alright… Gotta face the truth, gotta fight!… Fight it all, fight 'em off…
[Scarub:]
Children of a lesser God, illusionalized by landslide
Over less than man's pride, and I pride myself
As being one of the selected few to be able to undo the lifeline of swine
Through a mic line with divine rhyming capability and congenital agility
Scarub is the man, filling your audio
Adding azimuth of your audio frequencies
Freaking the inner ear, inner space of your membrane
Now how do you feel? Be honest now and speak or forever
Hold your peace, and I hold mine, and together, we'll piece together
The parts of hip-hop that we find puzzling and muzzle the muscle men
With surface but with no substance, but the world by circumference
Will colonize the colonies, castrate the wannabes
And liberate the underground sound with respect
I used to hate when they'd call me a roughneck, now I see the truth
Still resent the name, but accept that I'm a part of the game
Seperating hip-hop from shame…
As the world turns, you can find Siam standing on top of soapboxes
In the park, talking to people after dark
[Murs:]
Now, I can stand alone in the room with the microphone
In the rap stance, ask for perfection, I come too close for comfort
Like a lap dance, so rap fans slap trance states
So they guaranteed to buy a tape, next day, go to school late
'Cause they don't snap out of that shit until sometime around eight
And for all of y'all who hate, thought to buy a tape, but didn't?
Nigga, get my money, why you bullshitting?
And somebody call Scott Paar, 'cause the survey says I'm "too sweet"
When I MC, stand sugar-free, spitting street gospel, a hostile apostle
An earth underground posse from the tonsils to the tongue to the lips
I spit that dope shit to help my crew bubbulate, more tapes I dubulate
The longer the legend lives on, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation
What I give each song: CPR, creating perfect rhymes
That's why I'm looking at your ass crazy for all the times you ask me
Is my shit hot? Nigga, the taste flame-broiled, find it deep underground
In some unnamed soil, a wolf in sheep's clothing
Fo' both yo explode, rock the mic in my style, big Murs
([Rap sample:] Rolling hard and I could pee on top of prophets
[Rap sample:] Better little punked out and run…)
[Thes One:]
In the concrete jungle, there's no natural selection
But in the pretense, perfection is plausible
The P.U.T.S. break the food chain and swallow all fools whole
Hollow out souls scribe, timeline's Mister Majestic
When I write rhymes, I use acrostic telestic methods to spread text
Like butter on musical bars
Me and Monster are like white guys in Mexican bars
Rhymes fight, time like starshine light exist forever
In every endeavor, I write, remain tight like bolts
Stuck in the groove, my beat's smooth like Colt 45
Dude, I promise you when I die, I'll reappear in the sky
And bless shurling on a mountaintop
My rhymes can't stop like trucks on big hills
Me, dropping a mics tonight, wishing for ills
In a mouth, not sex, oratorally complex
I text-plagiarize not, I sip a hot thought on a cool track
Step back, watch a spot get rocked, a bitch
Bitch, switch a style and give me a call
You kill me, when I'm guilty, they'll be a picture of me
On the dashboard of every Latino's taxi
[Double K:]
Yeah… yo… y'all niggas been rapping for a minute
Ain't even learned your ABCs, instead your "innovative"
And all I can say is: "please pass the mic to the homie
Or that fool over there." Better yet
Turn that shit off, place immediately and find a chair.
Think about what you doing to slowly work your way up.
'Cause the pace that you moving, it make me wanna erupt
Like the hood in '92 when niggas got buckwild
'Cause you don't go by the rules of "no biting allowed"
Instead you think that shit is funny, Mr. Rapper Don-ski
Jonathan Blazer, but I'm pulling out the Taser
Same exact model that they used on Mr. King
But you ain't smoked no loop and it's a whole different scene
I'd rather go head-up on the mic, and when we done
We smack the shit out your DJ for that beat that is butt
Now he's turntablist and us three, we rolling hard
Moving city-to-city, pulling stupid niggas' card
Ain't got the heat for protection, but if you wanna have fun
I got my peoples in Regals and Jheri-curls weaving shotgun
No, nigga, I'm not the one and I'm not talking shit
It's just a warning to you gentlemen who wanna take that risk
We the hardest niggas in motion, I put that on my turf
People Under The Gangsta Steps, never getting burnt
My nigga Murs, Scary, Double K, and Thes One…
[Rap sample:] Haha ha hahaha…
[Double K:] Yeah…
[Rap sample:] Uh, with my three-eight-five shot…
[Double K with rap sample:] … I bust the Bumbo Klaat… what…
([Rap sample:] Rolling hard and I could pee on top of prophets
[Rap sample:] Better little punked out and run…)
[Double K:] Crescent Heights in the place… and all my niggas…
[Rap sample:] Haha ha hahaha…
[Rap sample:] Uh, with my three-eight-five shot, I bust the Bumbo Klaat
[Double K:] Yeah, uh… know what I'm saying? This for all y'all weird-ass niggas out there… Y'all little pussy-ass niggas… Don't know what the fuck y'all doing when y'all stepping up to the mic, and fucking with L.A.… And you done fucked wit' it… And you done got niggas pissed off… Y'all little wannabe… Little wannabe hip-hop dudes… Suck my…
*Important Note: These transcriptions are not verified with P.U.T.S., so there may be errors. We are especially unsure of the greyed-out text. We encourage you to offer your suggestions for lyrics corrections on the site's main page.
Trivia:
- None yet.
This track appears on the following releases:
- American Men, Vol. 1: Unreleased PUTS (2000) (CD) - PUTS Records (PUTS 6004)
