ओवरव्यू

गाने

क्रेडिट्स

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Pharoahe Monch
Pharoahe Monch
Performer
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Troy Donald Jamerson
Troy Donald Jamerson
Songwriter
Clifford Smith
Clifford Smith
Songwriter
Marcus Vialva
Marcus Vialva
Songwriter
Reggie Noble
Reggie Noble
Songwriter
Shanel Jones
Shanel Jones
Songwriter
T. Smith
T. Smith
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Pharoahe Monch
Pharoahe Monch
Producer
Lee Stone
Lee Stone
Producer

गाने

[Verse 1]
Get the fuck up
Simon says, "Get the fuck up"
Throw your hands in the sky
Queens in the back sippin' 'gnac, y'all, what's up?
Girls, rub on your titties, yeah
Yeah, fuck it, I said it rub on your titties
New York City gritty committee pity the fool that act shitty
In the midst of the calm, the witty
[Verse 2]
Yo, shut the fuck up
Luck said, "Shut the fuck up"
Bitches in the back like crack, get it cut up
I speak on behalf of them broads you call stuck up
Act like a man and get cocked, smacked the fuck up
Pull the truck up, Luck, you know the name
Ass out in the bleachers stay shitting on the game
I suppose what you're spitting is flames, cowards
Knew your crew was vaginal, I could smell the douche powder
Summer's Eve, I drop degrees chill
Come four by four, lose one like Dru Hill
Stay fly till you get airsick, now that's ill
Two choices, either squeeze or peel, now that's real
[Verse 3]
What the fuck's goin' on here? Just a minute now, hold up
Sinister wit hit the time I diminish him, finish him, roll up
When I'm in a cinematography state of mind
My rap trip, rip, flip, clip, say the rhyme
Shit, I spectacular run, hit spit bitches vernacular
Miraculous rhyme flow, back track to the immaculate
Binaca blast **** that's fast, son, I'll out-box you
Ladies rub the ta-tas, bras, titties and knockers on the floor
Owh, Fellas, pull your cock out
On the verge to splurge verbs for third-round knock-out
Uh, I bust a rhyme that dust frustrated rappers
Dust crush competition, lights out like the Clapper
The mic ripper, whip a **** like a slave
Separate him from him from his fam
He don't know how to behave now
Drag his ass, bag dun for his loot
Figure me to give a ****-y twenty-one gun salute
That's seven shots for 2Pac, seven for Biggie Smalls
Seven for Freaky Tah up in your neighborhood malls
How's that? Fat action packed rap remain tame
Pharoahe fuckin' Monch, ain't a damn thing changed
[Verse 4]
Yo, yo, get the fuck up
Funk Doctor Spock said, "Get the fuck up"
I got a bitch named Nina and I tuck her
I leave a **** hangin' like your mom's muffler
Snuff her, then my boys follow up
Respect like The Fonz, you see the collar up (Ay)
I spit out a bullet, load the barrel up
I kamikaze your town off a Arab bus
Karat cut, yeah mami, pull over
I bend your pussy like for years I knew yoga
I'm too smoked up, I can't remember me
Off Hennessy, that's why I carry Mini-Me
I need fifty feet when my performance starts
I push an armored car with Lowenharts
Nineteen inches, I'm not on the charts
Doc turnin' dark off a warnin' shot
Drive off and pop, six in your hood
Fuck the limelight, we rhyme tight, plus snatch the goods
Yeah, yeah, my ****, one rhyme and you fold over
I'm hot-headed 'cause I walk with cold shoulders
[Verse 5]
Yeah, get the fuck up
Simon says, "Get the fuck up"
Throw your hands in the sky
Jersey in the back, jacking cars, now what's up?
Girls, rub on your titties, yeah
That's right, I said it, rub on your titties
Brick City gritty committee pity the fool that act shitty
In the midst of the calm, the witty
[Verse 6]
Yo, yo, get the fuck up
Yo, yeah, I said it, "Get the fuck up"
Walk through Shaolin after dark, you get stuck up
Seek and destroy, baddest boy when I'm puffed up
You know my name and Pharoahe Monch, why we came, what?
We off the chain, plus we plottin' on the game, what?
Know your role, by the way, tuck your gold
And you and your mic can ease on down the road
Assholes are like opinions, everybody got to have one
Shootin' in the sky tryna to blast sun
Zero to sixty in a second, pull a fast one
Fifty cent flashin', they hate us with a passion
Mashin', still fresh in three-day old fashion
You're plaid, I'm stripes, together we be clashin'
Here's a Tunnel banger, Wu-Tang death penalty, the gas chamber
This gon' hurt me more than it hurts you
Slap you like the doctor the day your momma birthed you
Just so you can feel me the same way
I'ma feel this world when it kill me
Even if time stands still, I'ma still be
Underground and filthy, gotta have our way like the Milky
Innocent until I'm proven guilty
Never got caught in the game of tag
Mama never kept a boyfriend with kids this bad
No justice, raider ruckus, underground till we under ground
But y'all first, motherfuckers
[Verse 7]
My thugs, throw up your set
And shorties rub on your breasts
Get the fuck up out of that dress, I palm tits
You herbs get flipped like Jeeps on mountain cliffs
I'll rip through your chest, hollow-point talon tips
Double-S, double the threat, double your bet
Double up on that cash if you decide to invest
You sound like B.I.G., you sound like Jay, you sound like D
And I bet when I go plat, you'll sound like me
Shabaam Sahdeeq, injure your fleet, instant delete
Y'all crabs are weak, frail like a fiend's physique
I stay on the street, stay on the beat, stay with the heat
Stay sticking fools like you for the rocks that gleam
So toss that link, dummy, should've insured that link
Straight to Canal, appraise that link, then pawn that link
You froze up, Sahdeeq says, "Shut the fuck up"
Punk **** get gun-butt up and tied up
[Verse 8]
Busta Rhymes is like Hacksaw Jim Duggan
Been thuggin', lovin' the way we flood jewels for nothin'
Lay it over, another ambush and take over
Yo, we don't only get money
We cut the coke and cook the shake over
You better guard your head right, especially if it's late at night
Or find your picture of your autopsy up on the website
Yo, if you ever violate my space
Fuck a fat lip, I'll leave you with a fuckin' fat face, ****
Busta Rhymes the handsome, I'll hold you for ransom and some
Like the ghost of a haunted house, I'll forever live in a mansion
Bitches, snitches comin' out and you know who's showin' it
Like when the British civil servants pass secrets to the Soviets
Y'all **** is seamless blends of seamless friends
Lip on about the results of a bunch of seamless ends
Colossal, me and my **** Pharoahe Monch-o
The head honchos, gettin' this money like Leonardo
Enough substance in the roughness
Now watch it come around in an amazing large abundance
Now let me clear the smoke screen you blow, fiend
Live **** shit that'll rebuild your whole self-esteem
Pledge allegiance to the flag of united live **** of America
Let us control and own the fuckin' area
Wildin' your whip until you crash the whole truck up
And if you know what's good for you, ****
You better get the fuck up
Written by: Clifford Smith, Marcus Vialva, Reggie Noble, Shanel Jones, T. Smith, Troy Donald Jamerson

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