Eastern Conference All Stars

Lyrics

[Intro: Tame One] Yeah, uh, yeah, uh (Formaldyhide sammiches) North Face gooses, South Orange Avenue producers East Coast is the loosest (Yeah) West District is ruthless (Boom Squad, nigga!) We leave you toothless (P-P-P) Eastern Conference All Stars, ah! Ghetto Stars (Like this) [Verse 1: Tame One] The hip-hop Anthony Perkins, constantly merking For certain. Excuse me. Y'all say for sheez-ay Dogs like me be like, "We want Eazy!" Tame One be talking greasy, this be Tamer D-Day, burning more red lines than eight major Freeways. My motto is, "Fuck you, don't Follow." Skirts who won't swallow'll get stunt Tomorrow. Oh well, I still can't tell. You acting Beat, bitch. Beat it. No secret, I'll merk you Half-weeded, my bars are like Xanaxes Broken down to fours, they bring down yours Enpsychlopedia Brown kick it in, punk! [Verse 2: Copywrite] In this most aggressive artform, none of you bastards want it 'Cause I don't paint on a canvas, I slam rappers on it Laughing at clowns with their demos, passing 'em out Pass it to me, get it tossed to the trash with a smile Bad Boy with a long barrel that's all narrow Shyne behind bars like Jamal Barrow You got a cast-iron stomach? Let's see how Strong it is when I cock this and blast iron from it You flow sick but too slow spitting your coldest I'll come up with a cure before any symptoms are noticed You trying to shit on me? It's a dream. I got A way/weigh with words like alphabet soup on a triple beam [Verse 3: J-Zone] You want A free verse? Your label was a joke from the start. You want A free beat? Then put a stethoscope to your heart. You want Free dick? Then, baby, go back to your ex. You want Free advice? Chump, shave the back of your neck. I use Threats over money, so DJs won't play my jams Internet b-boys wanna know what race I am Black, white, or Spanish? Dude, you figure it out, learn how To rhyme offline and take the dick out your mouth It's 'bout to get ill in here, so stop staring, bitch Old Maid Billionaire, Christina Aguilera's pimp UPS is hiring, so close the trap 'Cause my old gym teacher ain't supposed to rap [Verse 4: Cage] I went To my grandmother's funeral, fucked up in a rush Stood over that bitch, smelled embalming fluid, fiending for dust My baby's mama taught my daughter to ask for paper Told her Disney World blew up so I ain't had to take her My engineer's a dominatrix trying to master me My out-of-body experiences got dead cops after me How my anti-pop records get played on TV? The explanation's the same as why you hate on E.C So don't be alarmed when you see me and my soundman Holding a firearm, stomping some bitches for a skit I'm on If my ex tries to come to the show to dumb out I'll make the crowd beat the fuck out of her before I come out [Verse 5: Mr. Eon] It's Julius Erving with word sling Mics inverting, fuck all you stupid earthlings Y'all couldn't shed light if y'all were the Sun Wipe the cum off her head and take a load off her mind One-time could never invade my paradigm Feed propaganda pamphlets through the asinine Joust with mic stands, jump over techniques My soul got caught up in mom's ovaries No angel on my shoulder, just two devils Feeding chemicals, pushing blood past legal levels It's the accomplice who's too obnoxious To accomplish, leaving you rookie fucks astonished [Verse 6: Skillz] Yo it's the G-H-the-O-the-S-T Writer Conversing with me? Shit, that's like talking to fire. If you Touch it, it burns, and y'all don't wanna do that. You could talk To it all day, and it won't talk back I still battle niggas, so scrap your plans I ain't gotta be in promotions to rap your Van. Cats 2-way me all day to deliver a hit, but I ain't Writing shit down 'til they deliver some chips. If B.I.G Was here, he'd say I was "Dead Wrong" 'cause I don't get on The radio and say verses that I said in a song It's Mad Skillz, muhfucker, the V.A. don E.C. emcee, AKA Shaquan [Verse 7: Camu Tao] All my niggas bugging out, wasted on drugs Talk shit, nigga, thug it out, you're waiting on guns 'Cause I'm a dirty nigga that likes the guts cut up And put my hands in the heat until my fingers burn up And pick my teeth with the remains when the bodies turn up I'll stay rotten, stay plotting on your bitch and her cunt AIDS victim, sticking my bloody dick in the cup 'Cause I'm hotter than the bottoms of skillets in your momma's kitchen I'm even hotter than the fucking seat the Devil sits in Cold shoulder niggas get blazed forever And your heat'll never happen like rubbing two wet sticks together You fags wanna fight and shoot, it's whatever