The Big East Lyrics
| Song | The Big East |
| Artist | Masta Ace |
| Album | SlaughtaHouse |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作词 : Clear, Jenkins, Stewart | |
| Who is the man with the hats with the snaps, | |
| Droppin' the raps with the truth, to the youth that's bustin' the caps? | |
| Who could it be? is it a bird? is it a plane? is it a tree? | |
| No, it's me: capital-a, capital-s, capital-e. | |
| Boomin' like thunda, strikin' like lightnin'. | |
| Welcome to my slaughtahouse, i know it's frightenin'. | |
| I'm hittin' em over the head with lyrical styles like a bottle. | |
| My foot's on the pedal, my hand is on the throttle. | |
| I'm turbo-boostin' from houston to vegas. | |
| You want us to quit, but shit, you can't make us. | |
| There's too much money to make, money to get, money to earn. | |
| My pockets are on "e", and i want money to burn. | |
| I got gusto, plus yo, i'm zeekin' 'em. | |
| Rollin' with l.d., ken, eyce, and neek and 'em. | |
| Phat tracks, i'm freakin' 'em, word to your auntie. | |
| It's written all over your face, i know you want me. | |
| Scientifical mathematical war. | |
| Rhymes and beats harder than trigonometry 4. | |
| So open your books to page one, and i'll show you how it's done, | |
| It's the roughneck kid without a gun. | |
| I'm laughin'-- ha ha! -- it's fun to watch you weep as | |
| You're cryin', dyin', try and figure out the jeep ass | |
| Nig-guh, bigger and better and badder than ever before, | |
| Hittin' with hardcore lyrical calesthenics that make me sore. | |
| And the shower of fire, supplier of the real, | |
| Get with the program and i'm slammin' like shaquille. | |
| Right on your head, do what i said, backin' me up is the d: | |
| (lord digga:)you must be crazy if you wanna mess with me. | |
| Cuz i am not the one, kid. | |
| Oh no, he ain't the one, son. | |
| The shank in my sock will chop you like an onion. | |
| So boom, head for the hills, head for the freakin' border. | |
| I slaughter, like great white sharks, i'm makin' sparks. | |
| Refrain: 4x | |
| Comin' from the big east, boy, we ain't slippin'. | |
| ("don't you know?") don't even think about it, yeah. | |
| As i walk through brooklyn, compton or whatever, | |
| I wonder why black folks don't wanna stick together. | |
| We talk about justice, and how little we get, | |
| Yet black men be killin' black men for talkin' shit... (right...right...) | |
| ("here's the one, that one that always talkin' shit...") [gun shots] | |
| How the hell we supposed to wage war against the powers that be | |
| When we are still our own worst enemy. | |
| That's why i'm the masta, i'm tryin' to tell you kid, | |
| I'll break it down simply, right back to the freestiddyle. | |
| I'm bashin' --breakin'-- i'll fry you like bacon. | |
| I don't smoke blunts, boy, you must be mistaken. | |
| I do smoke mics and mcs that come widdem. | |
| I hit 'em and get 'em and sit 'em down, then i spit 'em | |
| Out some lyrical phlegm from deep within me. | |
| I'm not john, but i'm madd-en i'll give you moore than demi. | |
| I burn like tobasco, your ass, yo don't beg (?) | |
| Miss crabtree, stumpy said you had a wooden leg. | |
| So i brought my axe and a box full of termites, | |
| Cuz i got your big, fat booty in my sites. | |
| I'm not from philly, but i fly like an eagle, | |
| My rap book is thicker than a catalog from spiegel. | |
| A regal, i do not drive, i drive a jeep and | |
| I should say drove one, some suckers caught me sleepin'. | |
| But next time they break in my car to rip the ase off, | |
| I'll have a pitbull waitin' to rip their freakin' face off. | |
| (sick 'em boy...) [barking and yelling] | |
| Refrain 4x | |
| ("on and on and on, it's on..." "on and on and on, it's on...") |
| zuo ci : Clear, Jenkins, Stewart | |
| Who is the man with the hats with the snaps, | |
| Droppin' the raps with the truth, to the youth that' s bustin' the caps? | |
| Who could it be? is it a bird? is it a plane? is it a tree? | |
| No, it' s me: capitala, capitals, capitale. | |
| Boomin' like thunda, strikin' like lightnin'. | |
| Welcome to my slaughtahouse, i know it' s frightenin'. | |
| I' m hittin' em over the head with lyrical styles like a bottle. | |
| My foot' s on the pedal, my hand is on the throttle. | |
| I' m turboboostin' from houston to vegas. | |
| You want us to quit, but shit, you can' t make us. | |
| There' s too much money to make, money to get, money to earn. | |
| My pockets are on " e", and i want money to burn. | |
| I got gusto, plus yo, i' m zeekin' ' em. | |
| Rollin' with l. d., ken, eyce, and neek and ' em. | |
| Phat tracks, i' m freakin' ' em, word to your auntie. | |
| It' s written all over your face, i know you want me. | |
| Scientifical mathematical war. | |
| Rhymes and beats harder than trigonometry 4. | |
| So open your books to page one, and i' ll show you how it' s done, | |
| It' s the roughneck kid without a gun. | |
| I' m laughin' ha ha! it' s fun to watch you weep as | |
| You' re cryin', dyin', try and figure out the jeep ass | |
| Nigguh, bigger and better and badder than ever before, | |
| Hittin' with hardcore lyrical calesthenics that make me sore. | |
| And the shower of fire, supplier of the real, | |
| Get with the program and i' m slammin' like shaquille. | |
| Right on your head, do what i said, backin' me up is the d: | |
| lord digga: you must be crazy if you wanna mess with me. | |
| Cuz i am not the one, kid. | |
| Oh no, he ain' t the one, son. | |
| The shank in my sock will chop you like an onion. | |
| So boom, head for the hills, head for the freakin' border. | |
| I slaughter, like great white sharks, i' m makin' sparks. | |
| Refrain: 4x | |
| Comin' from the big east, boy, we ain' t slippin'. | |
| " don' t you know?" don' t even think about it, yeah. | |
| As i walk through brooklyn, compton or whatever, | |
| I wonder why black folks don' t wanna stick together. | |
| We talk about justice, and how little we get, | |
| Yet black men be killin' black men for talkin' shit... right... right... | |
| " here' s the one, that one that always talkin' shit..." gun shots | |
| How the hell we supposed to wage war against the powers that be | |
| When we are still our own worst enemy. | |
| That' s why i' m the masta, i' m tryin' to tell you kid, | |
| I' ll break it down simply, right back to the freestiddyle. | |
| I' m bashin' breakin' i' ll fry you like bacon. | |
| I don' t smoke blunts, boy, you must be mistaken. | |
| I do smoke mics and mcs that come widdem. | |
| I hit ' em and get ' em and sit ' em down, then i spit ' em | |
| Out some lyrical phlegm from deep within me. | |
| I' m not john, but i' m madden i' ll give you moore than demi. | |
| I burn like tobasco, your ass, yo don' t beg ? | |
| Miss crabtree, stumpy said you had a wooden leg. | |
| So i brought my axe and a box full of termites, | |
| Cuz i got your big, fat booty in my sites. | |
| I' m not from philly, but i fly like an eagle, | |
| My rap book is thicker than a catalog from spiegel. | |
| A regal, i do not drive, i drive a jeep and | |
| I should say drove one, some suckers caught me sleepin'. | |
| But next time they break in my car to rip the ase off, | |
| I' ll have a pitbull waitin' to rip their freakin' face off. | |
| sick ' em boy... barking and yelling | |
| Refrain 4x | |
| " on and on and on, it' s on..." " on and on and on, it' s on..." |
| zuò cí : Clear, Jenkins, Stewart | |
| Who is the man with the hats with the snaps, | |
| Droppin' the raps with the truth, to the youth that' s bustin' the caps? | |
| Who could it be? is it a bird? is it a plane? is it a tree? | |
| No, it' s me: capitala, capitals, capitale. | |
| Boomin' like thunda, strikin' like lightnin'. | |
| Welcome to my slaughtahouse, i know it' s frightenin'. | |
| I' m hittin' em over the head with lyrical styles like a bottle. | |
| My foot' s on the pedal, my hand is on the throttle. | |
| I' m turboboostin' from houston to vegas. | |
| You want us to quit, but shit, you can' t make us. | |
| There' s too much money to make, money to get, money to earn. | |
| My pockets are on " e", and i want money to burn. | |
| I got gusto, plus yo, i' m zeekin' ' em. | |
| Rollin' with l. d., ken, eyce, and neek and ' em. | |
| Phat tracks, i' m freakin' ' em, word to your auntie. | |
| It' s written all over your face, i know you want me. | |
| Scientifical mathematical war. | |
| Rhymes and beats harder than trigonometry 4. | |
| So open your books to page one, and i' ll show you how it' s done, | |
| It' s the roughneck kid without a gun. | |
| I' m laughin' ha ha! it' s fun to watch you weep as | |
| You' re cryin', dyin', try and figure out the jeep ass | |
| Nigguh, bigger and better and badder than ever before, | |
| Hittin' with hardcore lyrical calesthenics that make me sore. | |
| And the shower of fire, supplier of the real, | |
| Get with the program and i' m slammin' like shaquille. | |
| Right on your head, do what i said, backin' me up is the d: | |
| lord digga: you must be crazy if you wanna mess with me. | |
| Cuz i am not the one, kid. | |
| Oh no, he ain' t the one, son. | |
| The shank in my sock will chop you like an onion. | |
| So boom, head for the hills, head for the freakin' border. | |
| I slaughter, like great white sharks, i' m makin' sparks. | |
| Refrain: 4x | |
| Comin' from the big east, boy, we ain' t slippin'. | |
| " don' t you know?" don' t even think about it, yeah. | |
| As i walk through brooklyn, compton or whatever, | |
| I wonder why black folks don' t wanna stick together. | |
| We talk about justice, and how little we get, | |
| Yet black men be killin' black men for talkin' shit... right... right... | |
| " here' s the one, that one that always talkin' shit..." gun shots | |
| How the hell we supposed to wage war against the powers that be | |
| When we are still our own worst enemy. | |
| That' s why i' m the masta, i' m tryin' to tell you kid, | |
| I' ll break it down simply, right back to the freestiddyle. | |
| I' m bashin' breakin' i' ll fry you like bacon. | |
| I don' t smoke blunts, boy, you must be mistaken. | |
| I do smoke mics and mcs that come widdem. | |
| I hit ' em and get ' em and sit ' em down, then i spit ' em | |
| Out some lyrical phlegm from deep within me. | |
| I' m not john, but i' m madden i' ll give you moore than demi. | |
| I burn like tobasco, your ass, yo don' t beg ? | |
| Miss crabtree, stumpy said you had a wooden leg. | |
| So i brought my axe and a box full of termites, | |
| Cuz i got your big, fat booty in my sites. | |
| I' m not from philly, but i fly like an eagle, | |
| My rap book is thicker than a catalog from spiegel. | |
| A regal, i do not drive, i drive a jeep and | |
| I should say drove one, some suckers caught me sleepin'. | |
| But next time they break in my car to rip the ase off, | |
| I' ll have a pitbull waitin' to rip their freakin' face off. | |
| sick ' em boy... barking and yelling | |
| Refrain 4x | |
| " on and on and on, it' s on..." " on and on and on, it' s on..." |
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