Lyrics Language: English Song writer/composer(s): George Clinton, Keith Elam, Chris Martin
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Gang StarrBlowin' Up The Spot Lyrics:
Ah, so now ya got me pissed off, blast off, lift off
Time for me to twist off a vocal fist off
Into your dome-piece, home-peace
I heard your chick wants to bone me
I get, wild like rugby, respected like Bugsy
Don't even ask me, 'cause I'm livin' lovely
Born to succeed, foes bleed, true indeed
The oral combat will romp that, you're one of my seeds
When I first busted on the scene
Nigga, you knew I had more than a gangsta lean
I mean my lean is gangsta though so check it
I'll stick an MC for his spot and sign in blood on his wack record
Boo-ya-ka, to your face as I ruin ya
Clown ya, dumbfound ya, while I'm screwin'
The fuck out cha girl as she steps into my world
I'm not the tallest, but that ass I'll polish
And if the hooker runs her mouth she gets cut off
But then you'll sweat her, 'cause like my leather you're butter soft
Your style stinks, kid, ya garbage
And if you keep talkin' shit, I'ma make ya pay homage
'Cause the G to the U to the R-U, came too far
To let you slide through, rhymes will scar you
And who the fuck are you anyway?
I catch more wreck in a minute than if you rhyme for ten days
Throw the cash in the pot
You betta dash nigga, 'cause I'm blowin' up the spot
I'm 'bout to blow the fuck up
I'm 'bout to blow the fuck up
No escapin' the explosion, those who are dozin', I close in
Set the thermostat at sub-zero, they're frozen
Extreme temperatures from my mic, stuns amateurs
Unable to conquer the gang, I ain't mad at cha
Peace to Jeru, The Big Shug and The Group Home
Keepin' it real, no playin' niggaz or chrome
I'm way past the kid shit, brothers already did shit
You want some props, yo dog, here's a biscuit
I'm a smooth nigga and my groove's bigga, move nigga
And we don't care who's wit cha, got the picture?
And you don't wanna hear the burners go pop
Gang Starr motherfucker, what, blowin' up the spot
I'm 'bout to blow the fuck up
I'm 'bout to blow the fuck up
I'm 'bout to blow the fuck up
I'm 'bout to blow the fuck up
I go from one format then switch to the next
Reflex sets the pitch vocals rip through projects
Crazy shouts are heard all around
'Cause the Gang Starr sound carries more weight per pound
I got some brand new Timbs, so emcees sing new hymns
You betta repent, come correct, represent
Or get stomped, smacked and slapped, cap peeled back
I got you open and now you cling to my sac
Get off, hands off, stay off, you're way off
You rookie motherfuckers it's the finals not the play-offs
I'll break you up into particles, to small pieces
Because your brain is minuscule
You little fool, come learn the tools of the trade
I made the rules so go to school and get played
Just when you're thinkin' that your jam is hot
Up steps the niggaz who be blowin' up the spot
The lyrics on the most recent version are sanctioned by the composer, or owner of the rights to the lyrics, however, there may be lyrics that are more complete on the prior version(s) that have been submitted by a contributor to mp3lyrics.org
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