top5 - mr. master lyrics
[prod. by mr. master]
[intro: mr. master]
this is your daily reminder that
america is in f-cking shambles right now
this is your daily reminder that
america is the laughing stock of the
whole developed world right now
this is your daily reminder that
this time in american history
will be remembered as a dark one
that will culminate in a m-ssive national economic crisi-
yeah!
[verse 1: mr. master]
okay bang bang bang. fresh out the gate. that shit go
still the same d-mn thing. ain’t have to change that shit. no
seen the city hall signal flash. hop out the culdesac
mystery solved. sixty flat. even your girl knows that
shame shame shame. lightsaber shave your face close
cia save strains of my dna to make clones. oh yeah
koojoogaga. tutankhamun took the tomb to gaza
booyakasha. threw the shoe at bush. that new muntadhar
gang gang gang. she made the thing her ringtone
google translate. paste ”el pinche puto maricon, ese.”
what we talkin’? f-ckin’ newsflash, fool, i’m f-ckin’ awesome
somethin’ awful. look like bambi. hunt like b-mpy johnson
ay bay bay. still never pay to play. no
ain’t a d-mn thing changed. ain’t even need to change flows. oh yeah
superrapper. this music thing’s a huge disaster
‘cause why’d i have to pick a name like master when i’m only bout my
[chorus: mr. master]
dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. spit that
dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. top 5
dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. on my
dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan
[verse 2: mr. master]
oh my god. my songs might start a whole riot
i might buy off the judge. the buck’s the drug i’m on
i might pull up. hop out. bad b-tch. socks off. lights on. f-ck that
you must construct additional pylons
hardly working. pleasure doing business
peep these peoples through my peephole. like who is this?
shit, if she fever hot, the doc do house visits
see who really make that pussy whistle like andy griffith
he’s good. she’s good. i’m good. you’re not. easy
all the girls want to bang. the guys want to be me
came a long way. up late. long nights. watchin’ tv
i wish my seventeen-year-old self could see me
on my backpack but trap. i dance. i rap. sue me
still can’t give up a gosh dang cent for no floozy
who would play me if they made my life a movie?
far as i know, there’s only five that could do me. and it’s
[chorus: mr. master]
dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. spit that
dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. top 5
dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. on my
dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan. dylan
[outro: dylan & (wyclef jean)]
alright, here we go
b-mbaclaat, b-mbaclaat, b-mba b-mba b-mbaclaat!
a rump un tomp, a rump un ting
a rumpa tumpa tump, a rump un sting!
i rip and i rhyme, i rhyme and i rip
dis is the way that dylan spits
you- you tryin’ to get some of this hot fire?
(we can either make this song or not make this song)
you’re too close, man!
you’re too close, man!
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