Crown of Thorns

[Speaking] It's 2005 I'm 'bout to blow some heads off, man I got so much shit 'bout to hit these dudes, man Feast (?) classic, Juju Mob classic, y'know I mean? My team is comin', Good Hands [Verse 1] Yo, I give it to you straight, never speak fakely Sharif T Lacey, they say he's crazy I'm only Lost Cauze when I got the .380 This is my costume, no moniker to make you eat daisies None needed, son weeded For some reason, on the mic I become some demon Other emcees eat they lungs even You think not? Come see 'em From the stage you will run fleein' I need more cowbell, throw in your towels You make the crowd swell with bottles Thrown at you, I'm the grave robber, throne snatcher Don't matter, I attack like throat cancer You can't rap, but you's a dope dancer A hype man, go adjust my mic stand I roll with ???, who love to make your life stop You've been dismissed, go home and get your shine box [Hook] [Echo] It's the Cauze, it's the Cauze... [Scratch: KRS-One] Emcees act like they don't know [Scratch: 50 Cent] I'm the underground king, and I ain't been crowned [Scratch: Styles P] Motherfuckers hit your knees and just pray to the Lord [Verse 2] No pimp cup, no gators (?) No trucker hat, no blazer I'm from the city that spawned Joe Frasier Bernard Hopkins, stay the fuck out of my zone, haters Now I'm no Messiah, I'm no savior But when the mic's in my clutch there's no greater It's like a vato loco with no razor A black man's Kool Aid with no flavor ESPN with no Raiders Or the Lost Cauze out for sale with no takers That movie +Tron+ with no lasers An episode of +Oz+ with no rapers The X Games with no skaters You get the gist; my only exercise is sit and twist I'm just as quick as Michael Vick Cuz I'm getting' blitzed like a three-four defense Won't be tackled in the Three Four Precinct [Hook] [Verse 3] I'm the omen in rhyme form You soft as nylon I spit hot fire like Dilawn, Dilawn, Dilawn Mind gone from buds 's big as pine cones The Lost Cauze is a motherfucking cyclone Get caught in my path, and I divide homes You don't want to die, homes I talk with my nine chrome He's highly upset Rush the stage with pure rage if you deny me a set I ain't playin', dog This is beast music, this is Reef music Treat your face like bongos, this the beat movement Daddy-yo the beat bruiser, leave your teeth looser You'll be foolish to not cop that +Feast+, stupid Cuz this a banger-banger, cock the thing and bang ya Danger, danger, one remains in the chamber Hot wire hanger, bash your face in Now go fuck yourself like masturbation The father of this bastard nation I'm hard like chemistry and math equations Leave your face full of holes like the mask of Jason I'm past the waitin', getting at these bastards hatin' I'm sicker than a faggot Hatian filling his veins with H hits My gun plastic like some fake tits (Nigga!) I don't make hits, I just crap classics that make you want to break shit You fake bitch! Bleh! Bleh! Bleh! Bleh! Bleh! [Talking] White Boy 1: Everybody's always talking about the legends, they talking About Biggie and Pac (White Boy 2: Yeah, fuck those two) and Pun and Big L No one's talking about the real legends (WB2: Hell yeah) The guys on top right now (WB2: Hell yeah) I'm talking about the Sages (WB2: Sage? Sage is down with the Klan!) The Aesops, my man Combustion Justin right here, are you kidding me? (WB3: Old school rap is doo doo, dude, it's garbage) He's the next big thing, listen to him WB3: I need, like, beats that don't even sound like beats WB1: Yeah, exactly, they should be like "ERr Err err err" WB3: Who wants to dance anymore anyways? WB2: It's the blacks WB3: Yo, yo, rip that shit Combustion Combustion: [Rapping] Yo, yo, yo, yo My rhyme style you can't even measure Cuz I flow like Helium (WB2: Mmm) at 40 times atmospheric pressure (WB2: Here he goes) I'm super fluid nice, can't rap but I can almost write (WB2: Uh ha) Can't fight but I can almost bite Hate Bush cuz he's stealing my rights Actually I just like to gripe (WB2: West Hartford, what!) because my skin is White I hate my dad, see, cuz he don't like Paying for me to sit on my ass and smoke this pipe (WB2: Go Justin) That's what I do because I'm so bored Got this super silver haze weed that you can't afford (WB2: Connecticut!) And I'm crazy fly like the Wright Brothers Nerd rapper of the yo, yo, yo man like Tom and Dick Smothers Might be Shabba Ranks ugly, but I'm "Mister Lover Lover" [Black A&R] Man, that shit is corny, man. Ok? Let me tell you somethin' My artist Corleone Capone from Big Dog Entertainment (Barks) He will eat yo' shit... Ay, Corleone, tells these niggas how the street, hood, y'know'm sayin' Rich, big time, killa crack niggas do it Corleone: Yo, yo this young Corleone Capone the enforcer AKA Real Clinton Y'feel what I'm sayin'? [Rapping] Yo, I cop the coke, pop the toast Keep a bottle of Cris to pop and toast Cook the crack, cut the crack, I sell the crack I love the crack! Did I mention I got crack, nigga? Keep a gat that'll put it in your back, nigga Four shots you'll be layin' out flat, nigga, OH! Pop the top, drop the top Cop a grip, chop the block I'm bout to cop the block, the block is hot The block is a block that block the blocks, OH! Feel me?! I rock the rocks, that rock the rocks Then drop the drop, cops get shot, the pop... I got shots for tops, niggas! [Talking with A&R talking shit in the background] Young Corleone Capone a force of AKA Real Clinton, y'know'm sayin'? JFK Jr. of this rap shit, y'know'm sayin'? I got bricks comin' out my ass, nigga, y'know'm sayin'? I sleep bricks, nigga, y'know'm sayin'? I got cocaine everywhere, nigga, yea!