L.I.F.E. Long - L.I.F.E. Long (Verses vs Beats) lyrics

[Intro: L.I.F.E. Long] Yo. L.I.F.E. Long. Trying to keep up, you know'm saying? Trying to keep up. Verses vs Beats for Blowout. Yo [Verse 1: L.I.F.E. Long] I'll take it to The far regions. Hope you dressed for the season It's about to get hot—all four-alarms are ringing And I'm blazing the spot from my heat inserted in your CD-dual-ca**ette boombox. And if you're in a ride Turn your system up. You know the speed got you stuck Like if you inserted Blowout's track in the ducts, then sparked up Now you're twisty, lifting in upstate like Poughkeepsie. But keep your balance straight, don't swerve My words be designed to leave equilibrium disturbed Now your course is off—on some “can't find your way,” lost On the mission to find the main ingredient in my special sauce Got you taking shorts with no reference to boost it By using over-your-head flows to keep you on your toes Got heads reaching for the climax, but got sliced In the face by a Turntable Anihilist scratch. I'm your Sublevel creature feature that greet you With a buzzer in my hand, giving shocking palms to freak out crews L.I.F.E. Long. You didn't know? Check my dues Been paying mine. Always blow the spot ‘cause I fight with landmines, hook spit with a mouth filled With C-4. I'm toxic, off-the-hinges like a broke door But you can't walk through me—it's just a metaphor I'm more like a trap set to catch, sweeping feets Leaving bodies upside-down when I hang cats Got kids [?] my abduction just for not following Instructions and taking proper precautions You should have read the manual on how not to get got I'm live and direct from off the Stronghold block Plus I'm Writers Guild. Careful ‘cause the ink's still wet On the battlefield. Moving to make it to the next meal Do for self—f** a deal—unless you want to talk A cool mill for me to still do my own. Ain't nobody's clone "Let My Rhythm Hit 'Em" like Rakim—the legend's known For the wise. My mind a crystal gem, always Drop j**els hitting in the center of your area I'm in a b-boy stance, repping for the new millennium era Welcome to the terror that you about to face Straight-up raw, no chaser. Verbal Speed Racer Blowout's a concoctionist beat lacer Stirring it up with me: L.I.F.E Long, sounding sick with it, off-the-rockers Like banging your head into a locker or getting hit by a brick wall That's my logo smashing you, making you fall You sinking in quicksand, under, beneath land, man It's a small world and ain't everybody living on it [?] survive. I've arrived to erase those who lie Make ‘em fess up to the truth. Most ain't really who They claim they are—got disguises on, hiding behind Bars they spit. But I'm equipped with methods To make you flip. Taking my position as head honcho Got gla**es on, looking like Groucho. Trying to get This cash, yo. Ain't got no pipe dreams Of trying to blow. I'll do what I got to do. Big up To DMO, Q-Boro Sounds keeping it thorough I'll rep two boroughs: Queens and Brooklyn Leaving you shooken like you out in the cold with no coat on And it's freezing. You premature, still teething Stupid for no reason. But I remain in first Place, crossing the finishing line, snatching the prize Then leave the scene like a winner with the gleam of Success in my eyes, then ignite peace pipes And take flight like friendly skies