My beats are slammin...
|
|
[Verse One:]
|
|
My beats are slammin from the rugged programming
|
My man Bob Marley hey my man I'm Jammin
|
You could never touch the stamina, while I'm rammin the
|
Hip-hop crowd makes me rrrah rrrah rrrah
|
Other MC's got flipped with the ease
|
Beggin me for burnt cigar, stop the music please
|
No, cause I'm a PRO, rap to the conVO
|
Make a crowd say HOE, at a strip SHOW
|
Represent, my name is Ason, keep calm
|
Rhyme's too smoky, funky like a stink bomb
|
Boom! Blowin up niggaz better than pullin the trigger
|
So you betta run for covah!
|
Niggaz better loosen they ass, felt the glass
|
A forty ounce bottle, yo yo yo yo money yo pass!
|
Woooh-woooh-woooh! I sweat it live
|
MC gonna live God? No, the nigga die
|
The max-imum of MC's are populating
|
The min-imum of those MC's are dominating
|
Now all and together now, to what what who?
|
Rhymes come stinky like a girl's poo-poo
|
|
[Chorus:]
|
|
Hippa to da hoppa and you just don't stoppa [2x]
|
|
[Verse Two:]
|
|
Ahh shit, here I go once again
|
Rhymes get shitty from the time that I spend
|
I come old like toe fungus mold
|
Ask my grand-pop pop duke gave my soul
|
Then I came with that old Al Green shit
|
Saaa-die, taught me the ballisitc
|
I get you blurry in your eye with a high note
|
Down, to the Brownsville, oops you got smoked
|
The shit I'm droppin is stinkin up your area
|
When I shoot it through like a messanger carrier
|
I keep my breath smellin like shit so I can get
|
FUNKY, baby I'm not havin it
|
|
[Chorus 2X]
|
|
Help master! [battle ensues]
|
Dragon-fist!
|
Horse-fist!
|
Bastard, I didn't know who you were
|
|
-----------------
|
Hippa To Da Hoppa
|
| Ol' Dirty Bastard |
