Styles Crew Flows Beats (feat. Lootpack)

Loot Pack in the place for the 1998 to the year 2000 You, ya' crew and we, we're forced to break you down 'til ya eyes can see 'Til the day comes when you feel that sonic drum Ya' dogs can't speak, 'cause the cat got yo' tongue LP, whats up you cerebellum anti-hemerick Tell 'em wait, You're not gonna see me kick 30 freestyle lines And watch ya' ass regenerate Lines I rejuvenate, jack elevates Levels so thick, So ya can't even tell ya' fate When my freestyle rhymes starts to recelebrate I'll step back in the b-boy stance Style will stop innovate 75% of signed niggas can't participate Wait for the right time to rain on niggas, come and precipitate Damn, I hate two-faced brothers always agitate First thought, put ya' head on the mantle And watch it decapitate I rhyme early, like Lavern and Shirley Ya' rapulate, sport a 'L' on my chest Can ya' elegantness rapulate, jack infiltrates On all you wack niggas who manipulate Brothers irritate, watch a likwit emcee step up and irrigate Still I wait for the right time, when Wild Child's feelin' great Hungry, 'cause I got the munchies, and my rhyme style still ain't ate L's in the airs, sisters yellin' Loot to the Pack Closin' up and illin' and searchin' brothers right to the back Before my rap attacks, ya' wack style sends you back And all ya' hear from the crowd is "We wanna' hear Cracker Jack!" I kick a freestyle, brother's know I don't come wack Ya' already clappin' that, a dope-ass manitrack Matter of fact, Wild Child known to pick up the slack Known to pick up a wack emcee straight by the neck Ask him why he rap Cuz i might tightly strap you in a seat to win a trip to the Boomback Style, if it wasn't for the style, It would be hard for me to show my culture profile What about the crew? If it wasn't for the crew, It would be, only lonely me, payin' dues Don't forget the flow, if it wasn't for the flow Possibly, how could I suppose I could rock the shows What about the beats? The beats... Quasimoto It's Mad Lib, he's back kid, watch out DJ Romes, Peanut Butter Wolf From this Stones Throw era Yo' we bringin' it, West Coast How we do? Mad Lib We drop shit like some architects Spark and get, lit to make some underground hits Mad Lib, the bad kid, we drop original Precise, conceptual, house of wood, innovation nine thousand We keepin' business like Eric in perish Have you hype like '89 like we buggin' on terrace Sometimes on the low-pro, styles like the no show I'm comin' from the 'O', What we do? The Quas, representin' Quasimoto Peanut Butter's on the drum set I grab the mic to run rec I'll have you hype like illegal gun sets Plus the Beat Conductor got my back Attack, whenever, whoever You wanna test me? Behold and don't cry The bad character you see up on the screen We keep it clean, like a diamond ring Or dirty like a one-night fling You gots to let us do our thing We droppin' loops with static cling While we steppin' on the scene It's the Loot digga' Man, it's the Loot digga' My nigga Yo', it's the Loot digga' The Quas and the Pack and it's peace like Greece For fried chicken (two million) or for Astro black sticken' Niggas talkin' shit? Yo' watch the plot thicken I'll leave y'all suckas wit yo' auditory sicken (The game's on you) Like Wild Man fisher If it's trouble in the West We'll bring back the juice with Bishop I'll smack yo' bitch up, like a pimp And it's low-high, And your whole zoo could get revved up, and that's no lie Quasimoto and the Pack, we keep it raw like sex, Mic check on the sex