Fright Night lyrics

[Flavor Flav]
I can't hear nuttin though
Alright, where you want me to start at?
Aiyyo you can kill the music then
Yo, check one two, check one two in the place to be
From the bottom to the T-O-P
That's right, Flavor Flav, Public Enemy
From Bronx to L.A., we don't fail
Kickin right here for 7th Veil
My man Kool Keith, H-Bomb, no jive
Yo, H-Bomb, hit 'em in the head son

[H-Bomb]
No blazes, tennis shoes and denim
Pimp I got the gators, leathers I kill 'em
Your bullsh*t events, don't play right
No tribute awards for Mr. Barry White
It's Guantanamo Bay, industry's gay
Hard to get rich, I don't swing that way
That switch to funny make record in Kingston
Jesus is black, tell Mel Gibson
Who wears a skirt, Sting and Dave Navarro
My strap, my money, don't lend, don't borrow
The Sunset Strip is Gaza Strip
Your clothin line is sh*t, H is f*ckin sick!
The rap game industry too quiet
Hehehehehe hah hah Atkins Diet
No backpackers pro-athlete actors
I rep for pimps, pushers, jackers
The P on the fitted I'm all for pimps
I throw ropes down for my n*ggas in the clink (yeahhhh boy!)
First and foremost, the industry don't want it
f*ck it, I take what I want and flaunt it
I'm not vexed, they spend for sex
Who's next after Michael, f*ck Funkmaster Flex
[Flavor Flav]
Yeahhhh boyee, kickin it for 7th Veil
That's right, H-Bomb (f*ck the industry, f*ck it)
Kool Keith (f*ck the industry n*gga f*ck it)
Hit 'em G

[Kool Keith]
No game here, I sh*t on you ill son
f*ck Hollywood's best guest list
Maximum dead-ass parties with flat-ass Paris Hilton
My sh*t shine bright with Von Dutch wipe
Jockin my gators, b*tches with fake titties act like
They don't suck di*k, can you see me under the standard light
f*ck the red carpet, I'm in here with standard hype
You just at the crib on Sycamore
Your blonde c*cker spaniel, my rings shine in your face
Youse a asswipe, you basketball player nut and scrotum jocker
You the givin ass type, with the Minnesota Timberwolves
Garnett's clockin your ass pipe
Ugly monster-face b*tch, you think you dressed tight
Evil bast*rd, you make your grandmother upset
Don't flush the toilet motherf*cker, you tryin to start a fight
Release the sh*t off my chest, get rid of the gripe
I sh*t inside your grey and white Nikes
Exercise your fat stomachs, no hamburgers at Chevies
You ride them f*ckin bikes
Corny-ass 42 year old player's club b*tch
The funky face motherf*ckin Wanda Sykes
That baldheaded motherf*cker just put a weave in, on UPN
Whack-ass tattoos above your titties
Your hard faced b*tch, you'll see me again
Like Faith Evans is the only one that sniffs
All you cocaine motherf*ckers in the hills
Even Vivica Fox is a ugly b*tch, chasin Curtis for his chips
Engineer, just put me in that mix