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Title:
Intro Artist: Task Force Label: Low Life Year: 2000 Album: Voice Of The Great Outdoors |
Last Modified:
23rd December 2001 Transcribed by: Rob Mantell Contact: Rob Mantell Artist Discography |
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Chester P Hackenbush: I tear it up like the claws of Satan I ain't sick, I'm nauseating, on hold like a call waiting Barefaced like fornicating on telly stations - with a girl you've never met the night before your engagement. I'll take you back like the Zulu nation and make a dance choke like spraying gas into its ventilation I make girls scream at my presentation I'm a nightmare like Wesley Craven's imagination I spit radiation that's causing desolation for them fakes 1s (fake 1s, fake 1s,fake 1s) Rappers stand clear, prepare to get blitzed Don't watch me it ain't just my style that's fixed What's your name Marvin and your second name Gaye? You look lost like the weight around Rikki Lake's waist. Every word I say leaves a foul taste like a stamp When I spit you're in danger like a chicken in a diet camp I control the light like a diaphragm Leave rappers drawn like a diagram, pull hoes like a fireman, that's why I am, known to flow blows militant Beating me is like seeing cats give birth to elephants You don't need to move, this cold'll make you sweat like being 6th place in a game of Russian Roulette. Battle me and you'll be dead, instead of being famous I'll break in your house like a new pair of trainers Your better off nameless, than being maimed by a lion tamer By an entertainer, who you should call Danger And I'm out of sight, trying to see me is like watching broken TVs, or anorexic girls in bikinis. But you can see me walk, I don't just battle talk My name alone'll tame a raging bull, like I was a matador I've scattered more seeds than a farmer from Salvador and make the hardest rappers act timid like a battered dog I keep my rhymes catalogued, pack a style to shatter a mikes I'm so high above you this'll leave your lungs paralysed from a height that's greater than satellites Take any bitch rapper and turn him into a battered wife coz this ain't nice, like a mampy trying to lap dance or a toilet in a crack house, sit on it to shit and then they'll spit it back out Bright enough to find my way through a black out and all your gna see is my back now Chester P's the recipe for fine invention Testin' me'll hold you back, like a school detention A lot of rappers only shoot videos they battle me as a man, then greet defeat as an embryo I'm belittling with a style that's crippling like being shot in the spine I'm sickenin' like strychinine, disturb the normal mind with thoughts You'll get broke like laws if you file distorts My spoken swords of war takes no hostage All I do is just spit fake MCs and get no love like them busted chicks. My style's like AIDS, your gna die if you fuck with it Crash with me and feel licked, like it was a truck you hit. I'm tight like Ren and Stimpy, chewed more beef than Wimpy Don't diss me, I been on more tracks than Linford Christie Call me Winter, and try to keep me out like the cold Coz my style's so dark make you wonder where the light go. I'm uncontrollable, like a schizophrenic rhino You face the master then stagger home like a wino You came here to battle then the truth hits yer Beating me is like going up against a tank with a water pistol Talentless challengers fall with every pen stroke D'you have to die first, 'fore you learn that my pen chokes? | ||
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