Amos J
Bought this song without even listening to it because EVERYTHING this TRUE S.F. hip-hop cat spits is dope. In this i trust. He releases it..I get it.
Period.
Ragtime Richie
Clear the booth, Cunny about to burn it down
In a basement lab outbound
No pinky ring so just kiss the pavement
When you fakin jacks bow down
It's the return of the last bandit of mass transit
Comin in hot for crash landin
Right in the spot yo ass standing, buckle your chinstrap
Brace yourself for impact, the kid back
Don't pretend you don't remember, boy
Open up the files, I'm a known offender
Sayin I'mma own any show I enter is like
Sayin it's gon' be a cold december
I told ya kid, I set the show on fire
Cock back, catapult the shit
Can't nobody hide when the bulb is lit
So keep shinin, Rich C, the ultimate, now c'mon
VERSE 2:
Turn me up til I crash the board
And I'll rock with no mic like the Jackson 4
Gon' flap your jaws til they chapped and raw
But say my name on wax, that's a act of war
Yo my back is sore, cause after yours truly
Wax the floor with em, they come back for more
Yall pack for tour with one track recorded
Soundin like yall ain't done rap before
Stick em like a flushot or tattoo spot
Or fiends tryna keep the spoon hot
Clown ass crews get they cute balloon popped
Not knowin the do's and do-not's
Who got boots you can't cop at the shoe shop?
With the diehard car battery boombox?
Who got bars til the loop stop?
And who got juice like when Q dropped Tupac off the rooftop?
Act cool, but can't take the heat
Sucka, you ain't got what the fans paid to see
Lames don't understand my speech, cause I only speak dope
And dope don't translate to weak, c'mon
VERSE 3:
Fake ass famous cats
Make mistakes of thinkin I ain't came to rap
Got a grenade for ya brain with my name attached
Glad to make your acquaintance, jack
I put the pen to the pad til the page is black
No erasin like I'm engravin plaques
The rotation of ancient wax in the basement
The bass'll make the foundation crack
The bass'll make the whole place collapse
I take it back to basics, face the facts
I make tracks outta table scraps
Classic breaks, double A batteries and tape adapters, wait
Word, to the beat I flow son
SF C-I-T-Y don't run
Fee fi fo fum, we got dope drums
Subs that be heavier than GI Joe guns
Soon as I'm done with it
I turn around and somebody else done bit it
But its the definitive, son, the unlimited
One minute to finish you chumps so come git it
Married to rap, but I wear the pants in it
Styles yall scared to tamper with
Flow cold as the air at Candlestick
This is my mic, which one of yall dare to handle it?
VERSE 4:
Many before but none after
Plenty of emcees, but only one master
Tryna keep up with the Cunnin, you have to run faster
Just like that I done past ya
Hard to watch 'em try claim the throne
Heavy is the head the crown hangs upon
Yall sang your song, the crowd bang the gong
And you out with the gang that yall brang along
I'm ill, no substitute, sucka
If you ain't know yet, you must be new
So I'mma bust this just for you, your blood rushin
All flustered up, wondering what the fuck to do
Close the case, I wrote this
On the back of a map so you could know your place
Your style's a cold plate that goes to waste
Your tape need more flavor, I'm the bolognese
Stay pokerfaced while I'm holdin aces
Go to your showcase and overtake it
Golden gate kid, child of the fog
Studyin the styles of the God
SALUTE
credits
released December 17, 2013
Mastered by Patrick Brown for DIfferent Fur Studios, SF
