you're an extra - the former fat boys lyrics
round one, round two
i promised you i’d rap to this
round one, round two
once upon a time in an mp3
there lived a montel jordan wannabe: bozworthy
he talked hop and rapped low
raps all quiet so his mom don’t know
i know audio so here’s a tip from a pro
project a little louder in your microphone
because your attacks a little timid i can read the signs
recording in your secret
you have the same childhood as mine
grab a sunny d getting of the bus
close the door to your room so your mom won’t see you cuss
it’s cool
i understand being in grade twelve
i look at you like marty mcfly seeing his younger self
time war promise you won’t be catching me
i’m in baseball cards you suck back in little league
i’m 64 you’re only mario 3
even with a whistle you can’t get to the same level as me
[hook]
round one, round two
first aftermath, now i’m going to beat you
two hiphop heads you rap like ship
said you did spoken word? should’ve stuck with it
because your hop ain’t hip
i’m giving you this tip
on my radar, little b, you ain’t even a blip
i’m saying neal star
you’re like an extra like your dad in jur-ssic park 3
someone hold me back, hold me back
because i’m going to beat this kid until he’s blue and black
speaking of black
i guess it’s a fact that every black dude on the planet can’t rap
you don’t know, whoa, i played the race thing
[?] how’s my s-m-n tasting?
i’m jerking off like i’m dwb
we’re beyond the year like i’m john f kerry
why you need extension?
why you need more time?
got to flip through your books to find more words to rhyme?
you’re like superman can’t see your way through me i’m lead
[?] shaking his head
don’t come at me
you and your slam poems going to bore me to death?
kid, you’re out of your league
that’s some nice thesaurus-ing
kid you got your books?
well i got mine too, but the beats alluding you
i got looks and hooks
you’re mumbling
i can’t understand what you say
my tolstoy
suck it, pompous -ss
round two, i’m off to round three
lord knows the finals won’t be bozworthy
hang off your timbalands you can’t get a track
and i did it all with the backstreet beats
come at me with your roots
come at me your boots
it really ain’t no use
ain’t no match for me
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