"The Fan" as written by Erick S. Sermon and Parrish J. Smith....
[Erick Sermon]
Yeah yeah uh huh word up
Yo yo yo,

Hey yo this here's procedure rock MC's during my leisure
Time I spend to do em in
The sound pumps hard and runs right through ya
When it hits it reacts like a airbag to ya
Some flip to it small kids might skip to it
And jail cats get rep to it
You get by on record but you wack on stage
So I'm blowing you up throwing hand grenades

[Parrish Smith]
That's why we roll with the big boys
With big toys, bringing crazy noise and ruckus
Shutting down crews and motherfuckers
In low beta, not to be fucked with like the swamp gator
Potato, on the barrel of the snub nosed when I blaze ya
As I, dust bust, crush and rush
Catch you flossing nigga, turn your ice physi' into slush
So yo, what's the deally for really
We rock nine untilly, grinding like Billy
So niggas chill and spark the Phillie

[Chorus: x2]
Yo, I know you was a fan of mine
I know you was a fan of mine
I know you was a fan of mine
Here's my card and on the back of it's my fan club digits

[Erick Sermon]
Uh, hey yo taking our spot, that's outrageous
P and I stomp those who get courageous
And microphones get rocked on stages
Any book or mag, we on a few pages
Not commercial, not fronting, and no movie
I swear, cause we take it there
Billboard's top ten, that's tradition
Coming through blasting with mad ammunition

[Parrish Smith]
Five-alarmer, microphone bomber, woman charmer
Night in armor, penthouse view, with the sauna
God dammit, pass me the rock, and watch me slam it
Jam it cram it, until you stupid niggas understand it
It's been a long time, MC crabbing bitch niggas running
Wack MC's we straight stunning
When we roll up, unexpected, undetected
Resurrected, EPMD second wind, fuel-injected


[Erick Sermon]
Word yeah, tell em P, yo
I never seen y'all before, when I came through
With my dogs headbanging with the, Hit Squad crew
Hardcore, we got biz from the get go
Any beef with us, we ain't letting shit go
E-Dub, no one replacing me
If there's a spot, then find a vacancy
Boy, I own my style, while y'all got leases
I get the whole pie, while y'all get pieces

[Parrish Smith]
That's why we own, biting our shit, we don't condone
News flash, Erick and Parrish, we got it sewn
And like I'm Damon we Dash for the cash, mash for the fash'
Bashing the rash, double up P, straight on smidash
So stop playing, serious like So What Cha Sayin'?
In Apollo sold out with Redman, fucking headbanging
To the street corners, the back alleys, to the Cali valleys
EPMD in effect, chilling as the scans tally

Lyrics submitted by SongMeanings

"The Fan" as written by Martin Badder Oliver Smith

Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group

Lyrics powered by LyricFind

The Fan song meanings
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