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lincoln center - pumpkinhead lyrics

[intro: pumpkinhead]
yo, yo, jo chris, what’s the deal? yo, son, i’m listening to that track you made, son. [no silence?]. we need to both get on that joint. it’s gon’ be sick. gon’ be sick—just like live at lincoln center, son. straight up and down, pumpkinhead, jo chris. niggas ain’t f-cking with that, son. straight up and down. yo, son, i’ll be right there. i’ll be right there. i know you in there. i know you there. i know you at the studio, son. niggas ain’t f-cking with it

[verse 1: pumpkinhead]
we live at lincoln center with the poisonous raps
sported-out, low-down with the teddy-bear hats
bringing the ghetto to you. now what you think about that?
i black out on any track and i’m heavily strapped
me and jo chris is like armageddon on wax
chemical warfare, mustard gas, and anthrax
wiling out like razorbacks on cats, faking jacks
i’m the sickest alive, airborning on dat
crazy like junkies on crack
in the dark, surrounded by twelve monkeys with gats
i tie a bungie to your thorax
push you off the building, black. watch you hit the floor and fall back
brooklyn ac’ hit you with the force to push your skull back
i shine so bright, my battle raps give you cataracts
free beats like lesbians with candle wax
i’m too sick—niggas can’t handle that
i’m that toothpick that broke the camel’s back

[hook: pumpkinhead] (x2)
yo, we live, live, live from lincoln center
respect that, wipe your feet before you enter
millennium rap—we the number one contenders
surrender. live, live from lincoln center

[verse 2: jo chris]
yo, as the real turns, my words burn like perms through your flesh
i yearn for disgraceful mcs to burn like a rash
i come forth with a legion of mcs who didn’t believe it
hit your chest, end up holding your heart like you was pledging allegiance
yo, pumpkinhead flow with me, blow through these niggas frozen [un-trollably?]
you know it’s we, leaving these niggas with death grips on the rosaries
drop him where he stands, stuff him under the sofa’s upholstery
these niggas on some shit like, “we don’t hold our hoes so closedly”
but these [whispers?] present the facts, bringing truth from the fictitious
with vicious raps, leaving all you b-tch niggas slapped
[plus, we taxing all you witches?], left you with about fifty stitches
the cops can’t get a lead, son—(why?)—we wacked all the witnesses
jo chris of tongues, pumpkinhead of brooklyn ac’
yeah, i said it, ock, so what the f-ck you looking at?
my man’s outside now, catching jux out back
yo, just bring in the hook before i decide to react

[outro: jo chris]
ayyo, pumpkinhead, this is jo chris, son. word. i know you… definitely feel kind of early, son, but i finished mixing down the track, son. [?], tell him, “you’ll be mad satisfied, dude.” nah’mean? platinum-status-type shit. nah’mean? time is up, baby. hit me back. one

- pumpkinhead lyrics

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