Eastern Conference All Stars lyrics

[Intro: Tame One]
Yeah, uh, yeah, uh (Formaldyhide sammiches)
North Face gooses, South Orange Avenue producers
East Coast is the loosest (Yeah)
West District is ruthless (Boom Squad, n*gga!)
We leave you toothless (P-P-P)
Eastern Conference All Stars, ah!
Ghetto Stars (Like this)

[Verse 1: Tame One]
The hip-hop Anthony Perkins, constantly merking
For certain. Excuse me. Y’all say for sheez-ay
Dogs like me be like, “We want Eazy!”
Tame One be talking greasy, this be Tamer
D-Day, burning more red lines than eight major
Freeways. My motto is, “f*ck you, don’t
Follow.” Skirts who won’t swallow’ll get stunt
Tomorrow. Oh well, I still can’t tell. You acting
Beat, b*tch. Beat it. No secret, I’ll merk you
Half-weeded, my bars are like Xanaxes
Broken down to fours, they bring down yours
Enpsychlopedia Brown kick it in, punk!

[Verse 2: Copywrite]
In this most aggressive artform, none of you bast*rds want it
‘Cause I don’t paint on a canvas, I slam rappers on it
Laughing at clowns with their demos, passing ‘em out
Pass it to me, get it tossed to the trash with a smile
Bad Boy with a long barrel that’s all narrow
Shyne behind bars like Jamal Barrow
You got a cast-iron stomach? Let’s see how
Strong it is when I c*ck this and blast iron from it
You flow sick but too slow spitting your coldest
I’ll come up with a cure before any symptoms are noticed
You trying to sh*t on me? It’s a dream. I got
A way/weigh with words like alphabet soup on a triple beam
[Verse 3: J-Zone]
You want
A free verse? Your label was a joke from the start. You want
A free beat? Then put a stethoscope to your heart. You want
Free di*k? Then, baby, go back to your ex. You want
Free advice? Chump, shave the back of your neck. I use
Threats over money, so DJs won’t play my jams
Internet b-boys wanna know what race I am
Black, white, or Spanish? Dude, you figure it out, learn how
To rhyme offline and take the di*k out your mouth
It’s ‘bout to get ill in here, so stop staring, b*tch
Old Maid Billionaire, Christina Aguilera’s pimp
UPS is hiring, so close the trap
‘Cause my old gym teacher ain’t supposed to rap

[Verse 4: Cage]
I went
To my grandmother’s funeral, f*cked up in a rush
Stood over that b*tch, smelled embalming fluid, fiending for dust
My baby’s mama taught my daughter to ask for paper
Told her Disney World blew up so I ain’t had to take her
My engineer’s a dominatrix trying to master me
My out-of-body experiences got dead cops after me
How my anti-pop records get played on TV?
The explanation’s the same as why you hate on E.C
So don’t be alarmed when you see me and my soundman
Holding a firearm, stomping some b*tches for a skit I’m on
If my ex tries to come to the show to dumb out
I’ll make the crowd beat the f*ck out of her before I come out
[Verse 5: Mr. Eon]
It’s Julius Erving with word sling
Mics inverting, f*ck all you stupid earthlings
Y’all couldn’t shed light if y’all were the Sun
Wipe the c*m off her head and take a load off her mind
One-time could never invade my paradigm
Feed propaganda pamphlets through the asinine
Joust with mic stands, jump over techniques
My soul got caught up in mom’s ovaries
No angel on my shoulder, just two devils
Feeding chemicals, pushing blood past legal levels
It’s the accomplice who’s too obnoxious
To accomplish, leaving you rookie f*cks astonished

[Verse 6: Skillz]
Yo it’s the G-H-the-O-the-S-T Writer
Conversing with me? sh*t, that’s like talking to fire. If you
Touch it, it burns, and y’all don’t wanna do that. You could talk
To it all day, and it won’t talk back
I still battle n*ggas, so scrap your plans
I ain’t gotta be in promotions to rap your Van. Cats
2-way me all day to deliver a hit, but I ain’t
Writing sh*t down ‘til they deliver some chips. If B.I.G
Was here, he’d say I was “Dead Wrong” ‘cause I don’t get on
The radio and say verses that I said in a song
It’s Mad Skillz, muhf*cker, the V.A. don
E.C. emcee, AKA Shaquan
[Verse 7: Camu Tao]
All my n*ggas bugging out, wasted on drugs
Talk sh*t, n*gga, thug it out, you’re waiting on guns
‘Cause I’m a dirty n*gga that likes the guts cut up
And put my hands in the heat until my fingers burn up
And pick my teeth with the remains when the bodies turn up
I’ll stay rotten, stay plotting on your b*tch and her c*nt
AIDS victim, sticking my bloody di*k in the cup
‘Cause I’m hotter than the bottoms of skillets in your momma’s kitchen
I’m even hotter than the f*cking seat the Devil sits in
Cold shoulder n*ggas get blazed forever
And your heat’ll never happen like rubbing two wet sticks together
You fags wanna fight and shoot, it’s whatever