Lyrics Language: Scots Song writer/composer(s): William Broady, Norberto Cotto, Douglas Jones, Lawrence Parker
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KRS-OneSlap Them Up Lyrics:
Tellin' it like it is, right about now D.J. Premier
Is in the motherfuckin' house and shit
Ya know what I'm sayin'? But yo, yo Kris, run that shit
Ya know what I'm sayin'? That, that shit, my joint
Run that motherfucker, it's only right kid
(Do it, do, do, do it)
Drop that bass line, you want lyrics?
We give ya lyrics, check it out now, one time
(Do it, do, do, do it)
When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy
Gal, will ya come slap them up
When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy
Ill will, slap them up
MC's get ate, get broken like a pretzel
And get dissed if they ever try to step to
They can't take a MC with loose lips
Talk a lotta shit but sink no motherfuckin' ships
Lyrics make bigger holes than hollow tips
Watch another rapper body get stiff
Just like in church, we pass the basket
As I preach over his casket
Fuck it, kick the body right over
And say, "See ya, hmm, nice to know ya"
Got another rapper to see
Yo Kris, bust that ass certainly
If you're shiverin' get off the pot
Let the original rapper rock the spot
You stand there and jock, goin'
This is absolutely ludicrous, what can you do to Kris
Chattin' foolishness, step along quick with that stupidness
It's me rippin' this for self, where else ya lookin'?
I got more rhymes than all the Jamaicans in Brooklyn
So beat it or be seated, Gee I'm mad undefeated
Young boy, you can't see me, run along and make pee-pee
I was rockin' rhymes when 'La-Di-Da-Di' was a demo
Admit you been on my tip for years and just can't seem to let go
Go, go call your mother, tell her you wanna battle KRS quick
I bet the minute you get home you'll get your ass whipped
Crazy ill mad styles is what I give 'em
Not a run of the mill 'em, I drill 'em, I got ridiculous rhythm
None of my styles you can get with 'em
Still um, will um, your crew come get some so I can kill 'em
Well, I roll by myself but don't let it fool ya
If I got beef my crew'll damn step to ya
We don't play no games, I'll come straight to your rest
Lift up your shirt and blast you in your chest, well, that was fresh
A fad doesn't fill the bill, but mad skills will
Don't let me have to kill you kid, God forbid still
Greed will lead your need to succeed
But your speed, your speech
Your outreach is a breach of what I teach
For lyrical styles you're a leech
If I was Spanish I'd say, "You lie like a beech"
Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow
Wow, for a amateur you really looked hard
But you're really a bitch, when you get it together
Call me, here's my card
Check the list, you lack breath control, mental behavior
Lyrical talent, imagination and flavor
I got no time for amateur rhyme, you could be hurt
Thinkin' you're hard because you wear a gangsta T-Shirt
I'll smash your wanna-be ass in the deep dirt
Black, you'll come up dizzy sayin', "How da fuck he do dat?"
'Cause you're yappin' like you can't be reached
If your name ain't Arrested Development, save your speech
Time to ill, I got mad skills to fill
Not a fake, I got more styles than Drake's got Tasty Cakes
Gotta be the best Gee, don't try to test me
You'll get jacked son, even if your name is not Jesse
Let's be up front when I meet ya
Peace, uh, I'm the motherfuckin' teacher
When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy
Gal, will ya come slap them up
When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy
Gal, will ya come slap them up
Do it, do, do, do it
Yo South Bronx, South South Bronx
South Bronx, South South yo, Uptown
Brooklyn's in the house, lemme tell ya 'bout Staten Island
What about Queens? Do it, do, do, do it, do it, do, do, do it
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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