The Rapture

[Verse 1: Crooked I] Crooked I, you niggas know my name Slaughterhouse C-O-B you niggas know my gang I'm just a rider on them tracks like I'm on a train My raps take away my hurt, the flow is novacaine Get rid of the drummer when I'm in the booth Or I'ma go insane Cause my reciting is like the Irish fighting in Notre Dame Pain. Disrespect me on my soil my shooters are loyal Cause I rap on a beef like aluminum foil You cryin' over spilled milk Whatchu you doin' to spoil Your bitch suck a king dick, she assumin' I'm royal Yeah I'm American's realest son On some alien shit, my new name is Area 51 Oh, God of California I'm out the West Slaughterhouse got this industry on house arrest I fucks with M-Eighty I'm signed to Slim Shady My flow change shit, think baby, shit crazy [Hook] {​​​​​​​​​​Sample: Voice 1: Your phrases don't compare to mine Voice 2: Ever since I got paid to start droppin' the bomb Voice 3: This is the art of official rhyming Voice 4: Here ! Fuck with that! Voice 5: My beats bang the fuck out your car stereo}​​​​​​​​​​ [Verse 2: Planet Asia] Yeah, the Almighty rapper Citing, rapping up your Aphrodites It'll take more than a couple M's to pacify me My cheese is dirty In need the industry to pasteurize it Pay off my taxes with direct deposits Fly as it gets spill signs just as as high as it gets To leave a loud mouth quiet as shit Fuckin' amazing the way that Planet Asia Leaves abrasions on the jack light Prison inmates in state cages The art of [?] slang My gold chain language is slick My soldiers on the battlefield with the proper training For those who hate the game I got something to make you to stop complaining Ain't no stoppin me from chopper aimin' Rocker bangin' on the block for danger Find me with the OG's Breakin up OZ's and chop the game up High sidin' hustlin' til the summer's up On the grills just tryin' to keep the numbers up [HOOK] [Verse 3: Cappadonna] I'm only 30 years old But they're calling it 40 Besides myself I only like to be with my shorty I'm a bum fly leadin' with my homies and them Chillin' in a fly BM Everybody in the hood know I'm buggin' ill But I'm always in the spot where the thugs is real [Shallin to indie I sped to an envy?] Though my shit backed up for anyone who act up Killa Beez in the house Enemies get clapped up No gimmick no punch lines, nothing to laugh at Hip hop Adidas and Lees Bring grab bag All the shit that sound garbage you can trash that Red posse is smashed at Killa Bee murderin' tracks About 60 [?] Hillary Yeah nigga fuck whoever not feelin' me [Hook] [Verse 4: Chino XL] I feel like I should plan to move to another planet When I'm gettin it in Since I'm surrounded by human manikins Unable to mentally process messages I'm establishing embarrassin' how the talent level just keeps unravellin' Diminishin to the point I'm listneing to excrement While my pen is intent on challengin' the Old Testament Me and Crooked I on collabos like blood brothers Have artists wishing their fathers never met their mothers Smoke a nigga like 300 cigarette cartons Never ignorant stayin' ripped like 200 Spartans Warrants up to my earlobes I smear globes with your hemoglobin My feet are cloven like weirdos Without fear wasn't raised foolish I'm humble yet fully aware I'm your influence's influence {​​​​​​​​Get em get em}​​​​​​​​ When I spit it's an amazing affair I'm so rare If I were steak I'd still be grazing somewhere [Hook]