"Tar Pit" as written by Robert F. Diggs, Lamont Hawkins, Patrick Charles, George Jr. Clinton and Darryl Robert Hill....
[Hook: Method Man (George Clinton)] Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (1-2-3-4) [U-God] Blood money mercenaries, think you can muscle Wu? It's a foot race, who can out-hustle who? Hip hop junkie flunky, monkey see, monkey do Great minds connect like mobster rings Sit back, let me do my, Sinatra thing I'm in the Hip Hop Hall of Fame, on the wall is the plaques Old ball and chain, I named her Madam X She love big cannons, sex unprotected You better respect it, kid, we 'bout to set trip You get ya neck ripped, eyeballs are scoping I don't sell crack, I sell dopium Catch him at the podium, nah, he moving too fast Professor X, behind the bulletproof glass You need a Wu pass, a bag of that high Easy with the flicks, baby, I'm camera shy [Hook: Method Man (George Clinton)] Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (1-2-3-4) [Cappadonna] We might have to 8 Diagram one of y'all MC's We grind everyday and we hustle for cheese Got our face on the front of CD's, we off the hook W.T.C. y'all soft and shook Y'all not built like the Cuban Linx Clan that get CREAM And back heads down every time we sing Give us a hundred grand for a show, let us rock For more money, more chicks, more private stock [Streetlife] They call me Streetlife, slap the taste Out ya mug, know ya place, you ain't thug, fix ya face Throw a slug, catch a case Meanwhile, beat trial, back on that cash cow Getting CREAM, however, a street brother know how Point blank, I'm pulling rank, calling shot, I got bank Pass the rock, my hand's hot, hit 'em with the showshotter Peace to my ala mater, Wu-Tang block scholars Never settle for less, promoters pay us top dollar [Hook: Method Man (George Clinton)] Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (Eastside, Westside) Get that money, God, keep your sword sharp (1-2-3-4) [Outro: George Clinton] The Clan'll talk, Calabama niggaz all'll quit Talking that short dick shit, we was s'posed to be cool Only the clue's on the other end of the stick Somebody let the monkeys out the cage Over-crowded police blood bamboo bimbo Chickenhead skeezer crackrock hoodrat Somebody let the monkeys out the cage Barney here is down to a feeding dreadlock Armpit like two Buckwheat's in a headlock Macy Gray's hair between your leg lock Somebody let the monkeys out the cage Ya mother's so cross-eyed, when she cry tears roll down her back Somebody let the monkeys out the cage Somebody let the monkeys out the cage [coughs] This shit is strong, god damn, what you got in there? Over-crowded police blood bamboo bimbo Chickenhead skeezer crackhead hoodrat Somebody let the monkeys out the cage Ya mother's so cross-eyed, when she cry tears roll down her back Calabama niggaz all'll quit Talking that short dick shit Speak up, no loud speaker but I'm speaking loud Venacular ass kicking, truth got there in crowd Shit, they call me the lethal lip The linguistic, full metal jacket of venacular ballistic Shooting out at the mouth without Chap or Blistec Here's a mothafucka, I didn't flunk diaper rash I'm verbally toxic, metal-piercing, forked, hollow point tongue Dumb dumb, pow, shot from gattling gums Hooked on phonics, packing a vicious vocabulary Malicious, with malice and mayhem Fuck a dictionary, give me the mic and I'll slay Them and literally poetic symptoms Pissing me the fuck off, missing me with that shit I stick a venacular foot so far up in ya ass You won't be able to pass verbal gas So far in ya ass that one of my knees will rise so far above ya head And you drown of a poetic ass kicking Leaving lyrical lacerations on your lungs, from a verbal hangnail That hung on my big toe, as I flow upward Kicking yo on ya eardrum, you wanna hear some? Tap dance on ya tonsils, leaving kiwi shoe polish on ya breath Cavity in ya best rhyme, and I'm the access on the rest Call me the proverbial verbal menacing dentist With the drill, I got lyrical skills I could perform oral root canals It's unwise to fuck with me Kick ya wisdom teeth down ya throat Leaving you to choke On where it hurts, unspoken vocals Tying down ya vocal cord and windpipe tight With toe jamming and ya mothafucking hemmoroids Fuck the dumb shit...


Lyrics submitted by ikefox

"Tar Pit" as written by Robert F. Diggs, Lamont Hawkins, Patrick Charles, George Jr. Clinton, Darryl Robert Hill

Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

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