The Rapture lyrics

[Verse 1: Crooked I]

Crooked I, you n*ggas know my name
Slaughterhouse C-O-B you n*ggas know my gang
I'm just a rider on them tracks like I'm on a train
My raps take away my hurt, the flow is novacaine
Get rid of the drummer when I'm in the booth
Or I'ma go insane
Cause my reciting is like the Irish fighting in Notre Dame
Pain. Disrespect me on my soil my shooters are loyal
Cause I rap on a beef like aluminum foil
You cryin' over spilled milk
Whatchu you doin' to spoil
Your b*tch suck a king di*k, she assumin' I'm royal
Yeah I'm American's realest son
On some alien sh*t, my new name is Area 51
Oh, God of California I'm out the West
Slaughterhouse got this industry on house arrest
I f*cks with M-Eighty
I'm signed to Slim Shady
My flow change sh*t, think baby, sh*t crazy

[Hook]

{​​​​​​​​​​​​​Sample:
Voice 1: Your phrases don't compare to mine
Voice 2: Ever since I got paid to start droppin' the bomb
Voice 3: This is the art of official rhyming
Voice 4: Here ! f*ck with that!
Voice 5: My beats bang the f*ck out your car stereo}​​​​​​​​​​​​​
[Verse 2: Planet Asia]

Yeah, the Almighty rapper
Citing, rapping up your Aphrodites
It'll take more than a couple M's to pacify me
My cheese is dirty
I need the industry to pasteurize it
Pay off my taxes with direct deposits
Fly as it gets spill signs just as as high as it gets
To leave a loud mouth quiet as sh*t
f*ckin' amazing the way that Planet Asia
Leaves abrasions on the jack light
Prison inmates in state cages
The art of [?] slang
My gold chain language is slick
My soldiers on the battlefield with the proper training
For those who hate the game
I got something to make you to stop complaining
Ain't no stoppin me from chopper aimin'
Rocker bangin' on the block for danger
Find me with the OG's
Breakin up OZ's and chop the game up
High sidin' hustlin' til the summer's up
On the grills just tryin' to keep the numbers up

[HOOK]
[Verse 3: Cappadonna]

I'm only 30 years old
But they're calling it 40
Besides myself I only like to be with my shorty
I'm a bum fly leadin' with my homies and them
Chillin' in a fly BM
Everybody in the hood know I'm buggin' ill
But I'm always in the spot where the thugs is real
[Shallin to indie I sped to an envy?]
Though my sh*t backed up for anyone who act up
Killa Beez in the house
Enemies get clapped up
No gimmick no punch lines, nothing to laugh at
Hip hop Adidas and Lees
Bring grab bag
All the sh*t that sound garbage you can trash that
Red posse is smashed at
Killa Bee murderin' tracks
About 60 [?] Hillary
Yeah n*gga f*ck whoever not feelin' me

[Hook]

[Verse 4: Chino XL]
I feel like I should plan to move to another planet
When I'm gettin it in
Since I'm surrounded by human manikins
Unable to mentally process messages
I'm establishing embarrassin' how the talent level just keeps unravellin'
Diminishin' to the point I'm listening to excrement
While my pen is intent on challengin' the Old Testament
Me and Crooked I on collabos like blood brothers
Have artists wishing their fathers never met their mothers
Smoke a n*gga like 300 cigarette cartons
Never ignorant stayin' ripped like 200 Spartans
Warrants up to my earlobes
I smear globes with your hemoglobin
My feet are cloven like weirdos
Without fear wasn't raised foolish
I'm humble yet fully aware
I'm your influence's influence {​​​​​​​​​​​Get em get em}​​​​​​​​​​​
When I spit it's an amazing affair, I'm so rare
If I were steak I'd still be grazing somewhere

[Hook]