You Hear Me Son

Lyrics

M.V.L.L. (ft. Cron Hypnostein, Roy Rukkus, and A.B.) - "You Hear Me Son" [Emcee(s): Cron Hypnostein, Roy Rukkus, and A.B.] [Producer(s): Will Tell] [Additional Vocals: Ces] [Intro: Cron Hypnostein] Cron and who? (NY, step). M-V-L-L (We're the massive. Don't pass us) [Verse 1: Cron Hypnostein] Cron and wack rap don't mix like tuxedos And backpacks from back, whole backslaps. You need to Backtrack your half act. Kids act like QBG from baypack. Take that Where's my aim at? Matter of fact, where's your brain at? I can't focus on the payback. [?] Coughing knapsacks. Drunk heart gaze at The train track. Who can explain that? (Who?) I derailed on the same track driving, so where your rain hat? Cover your hard cap. Stopping me? Sustain that take-back-fame rap. Already impact Crack that with a steady swing of black DAT Fracture your skull cap. Splat fat And you fall back, lay flat like a doormat Mmm poor haps, they've been mishap. Hmm. And I Miss that, sit back, twist black, sipping cognac Conducted over dap, floor to gats Across the map, niggas don't cross my path Underestimate destruction's warpath I'll flow past, blow dro, raps. You know that? So hold that, a Roman toast rap And you ain't want it with this chromatose cat, who'd over- -dose you to that, expose you to the fact more than you expected Raw and reckless. Ah, the letter ain't said it Before I exit, slip the headers (Right here) [Interlude 1: Ces] (Yeah, yeah) Shhh. Niggas don't know, son. One, two, three times? How many times we got to tell 'em, yo? M-V-double-L for life. Keep it real, yo [Hook: A.B.] Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type trife in the streets If you ain't got heat, son, you ain't ready for beef Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type raw when I score Draw with four-fours, nigga, put a hole in your jaw Ayyo, you hear me, son? All that shit you talking is dumb Stalk him for fun, take his heat away and watch a nigga run Ayyo, you hear me, son? You feeling that, black? Flowers attack You play me too close, nigga, and your shell'll get cracked [Verse 2: Roy Rukkus] So you nice and shit, right? You hype and shit, right? You the bomb? Should that mean I'm 'posed to like your shit? Wrong You get the long gong on some Hong Kong type of shit Just to be precise and shit, fuck your life and shit Strive to spit. You better go the right route. Flow like I can't play baseball—strike out. Lights out Clap off, blast off. You're mad soft What? You hot? It's cool. If not, pass off Straight up, niggas want to knock me like backdoors. I'll leave Your body like a coupon—that shit'll be half off Hear that, boss? Crash courses—yeah, that cat loss Rap forces powerful enough to expand pores Garbage niggas'll get dropped. Was you considerate? No? Hell, if I dropped you, the shit'd be called littering Woah! You act just like a bickering ho. You ain't Hard, nigga. You're more like a dick when it grow [Hook: A.B.] Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type trife in the streets If you ain't got heat, son, you ain't ready for beef Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type raw when I score Draw with four-fours, nigga, put a hole in your jaw Ayyo, you hear me, son? All that shit you talking is dumb Stalk him for fun, take his heat away and watch a nigga run Ayyo, you hear me, son? You feeling that, black? Flowers attack You play me too close, nigga, and your shell'll get cracked [Verse 3: A.B.] Ayyo, slayer, player, you ain't ready for The majors. I'll lay ya, then spray ya Don't make me fade ya, bang ya with razors Blaze ya—won't miss. I'll probably graze ya With phasers, run in your crib, taking your wages Pages. Then I go see your wife and blaze her Crazed, huh? A nigga iso, stay amazing They call me the caterer the way I'm serving niggas I'm hurting niggas. I'll put my work in, nigga. Why you trying to jerk This nigga? Still, y'all claiming certain niggas. Y'all straight-up Cock-slurping, nigga. I'll turn one into four figures Squeeze triggers now. Don't tell me how I feel, nigga [Hook: A.B.] Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type trife in the streets If you ain't got heat, son, you ain't ready for beef Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type raw when I score Draw with four-fours, nigga, put a hole in your jaw Ayyo, you hear me, son? All that shit you talking is dumb Stalk him for fun, take his heat away and watch a nigga run Ayyo, you hear me, son? You feeling that, black? Flowers attack You play me too close, nigga, and your shell'll get cracked