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Who's At The Door
Gravity on the beat
Infinite Skillz on the mic
www.warlab.com
Author
Copyright
Album
Uploaded on
Genre
Copyright
Album
Uploaded on
Genre
Take charge
Charts position
» highest in charts: # 288 (1,497,053 songs currently listed in HipHop)
» highest in sub-genre: # 163 (835,222 songs currently listed in HipHop > Hip Hop General)
» highest in sub-genre: # 163 (835,222 songs currently listed in HipHop > Hip Hop General)
About the song
Gravity sent me this beat and asked me to lace it to help showcase his producing skillz. Yall already know how nice he is on the mic. Get to know his production.
www.warlab.com
gravitywisewords@gmail.com
www.warlab.com
gravitywisewords@gmail.com
Lyrics
Hook
Who's at the door?
The people with the music. The people with the music
Who's at the door?
The people with the music you came here for.
Verse 1
I can add plenty to your sentences. Call me the judge.
The way I hold down the flow it takes an Army to budge.
Not a coalition willing to get hit up for this killing.
Pen's called black gold but I aint been drilling.
It's just ink. The heat is endothermic.
I keep tracks wet like I'm emceeing in a thermos.
Steady peeing on you Kermits, so green with envy.
My complex way to say my team is simply.
Better than your regulars. Cleaner than the average.
My boys stay fly but they aint Goose and Maverick.
Savage, is what we be on these melodies.
I'd rather attract fans than start stacking felonies.
Verse 2
It use to be about how you speak with pencils
Now it seems to be about street credentials.
They're trying to wreck the music like Aaliyah's pilot.
But that party's getting crashed once the team's invited.
It's the one you don't expect that destroys the empire.
The rap gods are angry. Them boys have sent fire.
In the form of a glad who is Headband clad
Carved from the wooden staff that Moses had.
I came not to lead a mass exodus
But to reduce those that have disrespected us.
I'll part them like the Red Sea; leave them deader than the scrolls.
The fate of fake emcees is forever lost souls.
Verse 3
Same canvas different paint.
I'm still that dude and yall still aint.
I'm a bard slash bully, the punishing poet
Taking out whatever mind is running the slowest.
I'm a, lyrical craftsman, these bars I fashion
That start and end with what you call passion
The paper is my work bench, my pen is the hammer
I'm a southern saint but nothing's country bout my grammar.
The mic is a symbiote attached to my hand
With a wave I change weather. You're a scratch in the sand.
You aint catching me man.
My team is sicker than the one in black minivans.
Who's at the door?
The people with the music. The people with the music
Who's at the door?
The people with the music you came here for.
Verse 1
I can add plenty to your sentences. Call me the judge.
The way I hold down the flow it takes an Army to budge.
Not a coalition willing to get hit up for this killing.
Pen's called black gold but I aint been drilling.
It's just ink. The heat is endothermic.
I keep tracks wet like I'm emceeing in a thermos.
Steady peeing on you Kermits, so green with envy.
My complex way to say my team is simply.
Better than your regulars. Cleaner than the average.
My boys stay fly but they aint Goose and Maverick.
Savage, is what we be on these melodies.
I'd rather attract fans than start stacking felonies.
Verse 2
It use to be about how you speak with pencils
Now it seems to be about street credentials.
They're trying to wreck the music like Aaliyah's pilot.
But that party's getting crashed once the team's invited.
It's the one you don't expect that destroys the empire.
The rap gods are angry. Them boys have sent fire.
In the form of a glad who is Headband clad
Carved from the wooden staff that Moses had.
I came not to lead a mass exodus
But to reduce those that have disrespected us.
I'll part them like the Red Sea; leave them deader than the scrolls.
The fate of fake emcees is forever lost souls.
Verse 3
Same canvas different paint.
I'm still that dude and yall still aint.
I'm a bard slash bully, the punishing poet
Taking out whatever mind is running the slowest.
I'm a, lyrical craftsman, these bars I fashion
That start and end with what you call passion
The paper is my work bench, my pen is the hammer
I'm a southern saint but nothing's country bout my grammar.
The mic is a symbiote attached to my hand
With a wave I change weather. You're a scratch in the sand.
You aint catching me man.
My team is sicker than the one in black minivans.
