Free download
Song Info
Genre
Charts
Peak #805
Peak in subgenre #48
Author
Jenre, B. Savage
Uploaded
March 13, 2009
Track Files
MP3
MP3 3.4 MB • 128 kbps • 3:44
Lyrics
[Bob Savage]
It's the frustrating, unshaven
drug taking fool with lungs aching
from nuff blazin
must be my mum's raising
I'm rarely making paper
the basic rater
Part-timer
Part human, part rhymer
Heart slicer, head collector
debt collector knocking
We're never stopping bombing
sick cut dropping
so forget your petty problems
Barricade the door and never let the plod in
It's a lock in
with scratch marks etched upon your coffin
Escape and find yourself shivering to death
From an arrow that'll travel from my quiver to your head
with the force to pierce your temples
it's clear I'm mental
fucking my perception with beer and ten draw
after ten draw, after ten draw
bunning it
Around Bristol town up to all sortsa cunning shit
Like the government, but I'm far from a bougie
and songs about your cashflow hardly amuse me
[Chorus]
Either slave for a wage or in need of a job
Got no aspirations, don't believe in a god
But I'm fiending for pot, smoking trees on the job
See, Q E L D are the cream of the crop
Leaving the top emcees conceding their spot
We smoke emcees like the weed that they shot
Get so stoned, unbelievably shot
That these wack emcees start to dream that they're not
[Bob Savage]
My style is so fucking complex you're only getting half the bars
Then you're getting kung fu kicked from Eric Cantona
With his studs to your chest
Put your lungs to the test
When you run out of breath, blud, I'll lunge for your neck
Cos you fucked with the best when you were not ready
Stuck in the past like Rock Steady
Fuck a Bebop, I'm the flow Shredder
Go-getter
Splinter these Turtle emcees who think they know better
Talking 'bout "mo' chedda", psshh
These cheesy emcees best believe I weave these tapestries
I'm done with pleasantries
We're the fucking peasantry, and we carry swords
Get away with murder like we're Michael Barrymore
But without our batties sore
People call us the Tyrannosaur
'Cos when we get onstage you always hear a massive roar
From the working class blud, cos we dont rap for the bourgeois
So they're taking cheapshots, like an amateur pornstar
[Chorus]
[Jenre]
Yo I told you we're crazy as fuck
Run you over till your face has been crushed
Kill you and rub your name in the mud
With a sick tag made from your blood guts and shit man
Painting the lanes with your brains and your blood
You fucks are too pleased to squawk
You got a mouth that don't mean you got a need to talk
Some people wanna please 'em all
But you can fuck free speech if you're speaking balls
Your weak shit won't be received at all well
We give you that feeling like the police been ringing at your doorbell
And all Hell's bout to break loose
You fake fruits make moves but you're still spitting bait tunes
So hearing QELD could be quite nightmarish
Realising your spotlight might perish
We just write rhymes fairest
Tough luck
QELD swinging at you like a motherfucking nunchuck
[Chorus]
