Ring the bell so it's time to eat
Brick Dog stash weed inta AMI-seats
Bomb inside the palm
Doc rock a wifebeater with me beatin' my wife ass ironed on
The front my pump built like the Klumps
To carry it I take the spare out the trunk
I stay hungry, I ain't worked for days
That's why you see the pump when the curtains raise
Blast! Don't panic
Do I gotta explain how I tame and lock the rapgame single-handed?
Hell nah! I won't tell you son
If I find a wack idea I sell you one
Doc and Hot Nick, Inspectah
My lecture's like Hannibal Lector's
Where's the ketchup?
Don't speak on it, shut ya trap
I see ya whole crew yellow like mustardpacks
Ah woo, Doc in my own zone
You say you got the rapgames sewn, but it's sewn wrong
I ride through ya hood in a Mr. Softee truck
Then pull a mac out a box of snow cones
Yeah, ya little fucks
Gimme ya fucking money!
Uh uh, check it
I'm hotter than a hundred degrees with my coat on
Playing with a dynamite stick, where did I go wrong?
Somebody pull the fire along when Jonny stomp
If ya lukewarm leavin ya clothes and boots torn
Pro's and con's, megabomb's and so-on's
By arid actions try MC's to get their roll on
First issue got issues
What is hip-hop to Hot Nickles?
It's like Funk Doc to snot tissues, word
Look at my hand and get the third
Finger out ya earhole like: Fuck what you hear
Now that's what I call hardcore, let's act fool
Mr. Fix-It like Handyman I pack tool
I been shitty, I'm from the bowels of the city (New York)
And just because my outfit match don't make me pretty
Baggy dungarees, dick need room to breathe
In a room full of crackers I might cut the cheese
Ain't no rules to the game, if it is we ain't playin'
In your business like EPMD, "So What Cha Sayin'"
You co-signin that bullshit yo man tryin'
Chaka chaka cha-ta tatat!
Check, the code echos from magazines to the big screen
Fo' wheel machines like ya wits scream
Kids fiend from the urban to sub-urban
Roll upon me thirstin' like: Hey, hey, Mister Dream-Merchant
We roll longer than dice in a casino
Cee-lo in the 4, 5 or 6 with double 0
Behind the tinted windows I lay low
On some hydro tryin' to slide from the 5-0
But now I get wild similar to Ol' Dirty
A third time felon just hit with over 30
No worries, style have em so thirsty
First degree heats are quittin' on me, cold turkey, no mercy
I bring the pain of a hundred migraines
But a thousand shoutin' my name that's why I came
But first bring the cashburst, then the outburst
My surround sound pound ya ear like Jevon Kearse
I flex muscle outside I find a next hustle
Trouble with ya here and face the TEC-muscle
Even the best buckle win
I take it to the extreme
It gets ugly, but it's what a nigga do to get cream
Lyrics submitted by spliphstar
"Redbull" as written by Hugh Brodie Clifford Smith
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
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