grip grand – popular demand lyrics
yo, the beat hit ‘em in the gut, call it slapboxin’
i spit broken gl-ss, you can call it trash talkin’
my lyrics bang on the block like a rap auction
do the opposite of front on grip—back off him
i’m higher than the rocket that astronauts blast off in
a perfect storm of rap, it doesn’t happen that often
whether hurricane, rain, sleet, snow, i spaz on ‘em
hang a sucker on the wall, spray my f-ckin’ tag on him
what a drag, he’s so bad that i can only bag on him
heavy flow, lemme drop a f-ckin’ bowling bag on ‘em
any mc who step, yo, we prob’ly smash on him
get broke, left the show with a body cast on him
call the coroner, get yourself a body bag from him
it’ll save me the trouble
these lames need to hustle
it’s a struggle in the underground, we may need a shovel
when the flow’s like a hammer
they can’t even touch you
got a heaven-sent style, so i may be above you
over your head, like i was floatin’ eight feet above you
bringin’ greatness to my state
if you ain’t see then f-ck you
i’m an animal, an ape-man, the king of the jungle
rhymin’ on beats, each and every rhyme i release
is so dangerous, rappers need to sign a release
i’m on the streets in the form of a man
with the mind of a beast
i eat a rhymer, crack his spine in my t–th
long live the president
but better yet would be if all of mine were deceased
money ain’t talkin’ like a mime at a speech
i got a rhyme book that’s bottomless, deep
i told ‘em i was a freak
see a psychiatrist same time every week
and rec-league came to play, it’s game time every week
every hour, every minute, every second at least
i’m on the clock steady deliverin’ consecutive heat
time for some action
i don’t wait for the director to speak
respect to my team
the microphones a wreckin’ machine
i tear the roof off while you
poppin’ champagne on some evelyn king
well that’s a shame, you should let a young veteran sing
you think you fly? i’ma de-feather your wings
i’m not a puppet, i severed the strings
they say i’m clever with words
i say i’m better at dismemberin’ herbs
i’m out for the cheddar and each and every treasure that i ever deserved
i’m not a customer, i’ll never be served
i’m like a hundred steps ahead of all the suckers so forget ‘em, they scurred
go back to kansas or wherever they were
i told ‘em “don’t quit your day job”
not sayin’ i work harder than god
but, in the bible, even god took a day off
cutbacks and layoffs
they outside the key and couldn’t even get a j off
-ss-ssinate ‘em like 8-off
so raise off the turf like a plane when it takes off
i ain’t got a hockey mask, i’ll still take your face-off
your rap needs a map, g, the whole sh-t is way off
no pay-off, you lost the qualifier, no play-offs
hey, boss, you tryna beat grip?
well, your chances gettin’ slim, b-tch, like kate moss
fitness, and weight-loss
i rip this in half and i dip it in steak sauce
eatin’ up rappers like pac-man done ate dots
i told ‘em bounce like a bank shot
i’m real like house shoes and a tank top
you fake like a stage-prop
there ain’t a style that i ain’t got locked
i’m goin’ viral, i hope you got your inbox blocked
‘cuz every file i attach
is like an arsonist is lightin’ a match
so many hits, they keep rewritin’ my stats
my sh-t is dope, and you can smoke it in a pipe
like it’s crack
you can shoot it in your vein and say you like every track
there’s a computer in my brain that’s from the future and it’s writin’ my rap
so drop the motherf-ckin’ mic, ‘cuz i’m back
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