Fresh to Death (Feat: Dope KNife)
(Fresh. To. Death.)
(Don't just stand there, let's get to it!)
I wear thirteens, know what I mean?
Strictly double-XL, and I don't read that fuckin' magazine
Throw on some baggy fatigues, mash on the fashion police
Two jacket swagger from Weez, half of you rappers, I see
Wear street-wear brands, they put my graphic on tees
Then try to get me to rock that shit to help with publicity
You must be kidding me? A fitting? I'll go on a killing spree
Rip out the stitches and seams, that shit you bit from the team
I got: racks on racks and black on black, they yelling:
Johnny Cash-back! Please obscure your logo
Cause you owe rappers like ASCAP
We don't see the promo value when posing for admats
And since most people won't allow you to pay them in hashtags
(is that bad?)
Hey, yo, the flow's straight Hazmat and your clothes ain't half that, so I donate trash bags!
I don't make Dad-Rap, though my kids stay fly
So, go ahead and try it on, see if it's your size!
But I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth! (No! No, no, no!)
But I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth! (No! No, no, no!)
But I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth! (No! No, no, no!)
I wear what I like, you just wear my shit out
(Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!)
Try not to come before the pixels in my avatar load
This ain't no competition, this is me in battle-scar mode
Piles of shit only get measured in toxic rap-bars
Or on catwalks with anorexics rocking Phat Farm
You spit sweet-sixteens?
I straddle laps of disgust and smuggle the struggle of your Daddy's trust to the back of the bus
It don't take an idiot-savant, hillbilly-with-heart, to recognise what deprived kiddies want
So let the critical mass commence
Slinging afterlife jackets, and these half-ass attempts to pass the buck
End the Fed, feed the poor, even the score and, um, hedge our bets
Deep pockets and cheap wallets, and the scene that seems
To seek solace in ripping off seamstresses of street knowledge
Derelicte's garbage is so hot! So, don't talk trash!
I speak knowledge and blow spots, so, how 'bout that?
I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth (No! No, no, no!)
I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth! (No! No, no, no!)
I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth! (No! No, no, no!)
And remove your fucking shoes when you step in my house
(Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!)
(Yeah, dope.)
Gaddafi shades make it real hard to find a date
Fuck her right-away! I strut in traffic, I might be late
Find a way. Tell me my shit is fresh, what you trying to say?
Who cares? I'm in the same rude-wear since '98
True shit, I'm busting great moves in the same shoes
How you staying smooth wearing motherfuckin' slave jewels
Fake crews, fabric is real, people counterfeit
On the day the casket is sealed, it ain't worth announcing shit! Stop the crap. The only time I'm poppin' tags is when I'm cut a hole into a motherfuckin' stock in half
Got my bags, walking out the designer store, loaded with a box of swag! Multitask, I can smoke and fight and dab
I'm a dad. (?)
Get off at the next stop, take the shit you just cop
And I will take the CEO and put him in a sweatshop
Yell out: 'trash talk!', and I'm dishing it loud
(Come up on the catwalk and I piss in the crowd)
I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth (No! No, no, no!)
I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth! (No! No, no, no!)
I don't pop tags, I pop off at the mouth! (No! No, no, no!)
Clear thirty kicks and they're square in your couch
(Fresh. To. Death.)
(Strange Famous!)