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Its UK Hip-Hop but not as you know it...
Song Info
Genre
Author
Mink-C
Rights
Mink-C/Fried Fish Funk
Uploaded
October 27, 2003
Track Files
MP3
MP3 2.8 MB • 128 kbps • 0:00
Lyrics
THE SHAKEDOWN
-------------
Tie his hands up with a rag, Lock his horns like a stag
and Stick him on a pole like a flag
all metaphorical naturally
Cos in reality I'm sayin that I'm taking ot this MC
From Horsham - man is that so?
Once dated a girl from there a long time ago
Could have been your sister or even your mum
Said apart from being near Gatwick, its a slum
Full of wankers! full of junkies! full of crap!
And obviously full of dickheads who can't fucking rap
Now I've only heard your soundclick site and to be candid
Most songs are crap, at best sub standard
If you wanna succeed Patrick, forget rapping
instead go to Tescos and start shelf stacking
could still tell the checkout girls that you're a rap star
avoiding all the bling thats why you push a crap car
well ya drivin ya Corsa with your girlfriend 'Trace'
Roll with your spotty friends and park up in the market place
On a saturday night, but I will leave you cryin
When I appear at your window and buck you like Michael Ryan!
The truth is I'm better in every category
So keep coming with your concepts tracks like jackanory
You've been watching too many 'stars in their eyes'
Cos you sounding like other British rappers and I despise
Generic sounding music, get your own style
Or risk getting your card pulled once in a while
Battle me? Get real
You got no skills, no style and no deal
downloaded a track but found it dull and stale
couldn't hit delete quicker if It had been spam mail
paracite and recycle bin - a perfect marriage
Your biggest fans your mum and even then she thinks you're average
I rap like a technics while you're a straight binatone
play live away from Horsham, you'd need a chaparone
your songs song bad, theres just a threat of attack
because the audience would want their money back
skank your style like a gyppo, i burn tracks like a zippo
your rhymes are dirty, wallowing in mud like a hippo
soft target, song texture of a cord carpet
blowing up would be playing the playhouse at Margate
heard many UK rappers but homes you're the weakest
so make your songs for your college but stay the fuck out my speakers
paracite, got ya shakin all right
you got the style of Michael Barrymore, ya audios is 'all-white'
like wolf on gladiators, have you quaking
serve you on a platter, just like Delia i'm bakin
well you're tepid or luke warm, like bovril my rhymes hot
find the pub you're playin in and come and bust your spot
if you rap your rhymes in a youth centre you'd be beaten
by some seven year old girl there'd be no cheatin
just pure crit, telling you you're shit and give you gip
and if you start arguin some ten year old will split your lip
that's be the best you can hope for, so drop the mic
drop your persona, and your name paracite
remove your soundblaster, delete your site
remove all your MP3s from your hard drive
then get a job at McDonalds serving fries
I'll have a double cheese quarterpounder - super size
and a BBQ dip, you ain't a legit Brit
admit you'll quit, even kicking a skit you'd still be shit
i'll submit and transmit, tighter than a gym kit
watch me drop your fuckin track right in the pan, and flush it
