Grap Luva - J-Treds, Obsession, Loer Velocity, and Tru Persona Freestyle (The Time Has Come!) lyrics

[Intro: J-Treds] Ladies and gentlemen. Once again, ladies and gentlemen. Let you know who's back. And we ‘bout it. That's me, J-Treds. Now it's Pound—AKA. Who's the dopest n***a? You say, “J.” That's how it is. It's time to get down. BK is where I'm found, AKA Pound. That's right. A new name. I'll come through with game. Yo, check it out, yo [Verse 1: J-Treds] Yo, with these sk**s, people say that he's I'll But I got to see bills, so the flow's now clean-filled It's priceless. Also raw and quite fresh Trying to test, going overboard—no life vest So they sink slow. Can't you return? I don't think so ‘Cause I'm one of the hottest on college or mix shows Stay tuned. This is just my debut Premiere, the intro. Just wait until page two It's more ill, more raw, more sk** So you best not pop sh** like Orville Son, I'll pop back with a hot track So when heads diss, they're rocking a stocking cap But they can't hot. Only their sk**s are hand-sized So better not get me steamed or you'll get pan-fried I'll overcook ‘em. Now who's raw? Overlook ‘em Let ‘em know why so many heads are afraid to go to Brooklyn ‘Cause I'm there, son, and my rhymes feared Most ain't man enough to test—they probably don't even bother Can't rap, flows s**, need to grow up And the super calm-a**, dope emcee. What do you want now? [Verse 2: Obsession] I'll take a rhyme to the stretch and reach the upper limits Speaking run-on sentences ‘cause thoughts be, like, infinite Too many in the world walk with their eyes tinted Afraid to bear their soul so that people won't get in it If you focus on perception, you'll be nothing but an image An image is nothing. You can ask right by Q-Tipping You're see-through like when light be transmitting Too many brothers trying to make dollars be counterfeiting Artificial like a style that's bitten I'm trying to stay true to myself—that's how I'm living I confess I'm Christian, tryna avoid sinning But this don't stop me from living. I make mistakes and I'm repenting I'll be an activist like a kid from SNCC at a sit-in When it comes to rhyming, I love to Rock like Chris, but I ain't kidding Tracks are like cops arresting, plus they hitting Got me moving when I'll be trooping through Washington and Clinton Streets be hot like when my ancestors was cotton-picking I'll take this time out to thank them. We be forgetting They lived their whole lives in a whole different setting Peace to revolutionaries and activists who be repping [Verse 3: Loer Velocity] Unorthodox sk**s from out the mighty hills of Yonkers Overconquers and Boogies Down more than Bronx does Watch me stomp, cuz, in this oral presentation And dissipate your breath like when there's stifled ventilation Leave ‘em Asian, slightly slanted. Take for granted Never my sk**s. I'll sever those heels from standing Feet not firmly planted? Don't submit weak defense tries Your surrounding fence cries when going up against my Semiautomated, infantry type orchestrated To get you infiltrated, sedated, habituated Intrusion cave in, blatant disposition displacement You're misconstrued attitude. I'm Loe like a basement Average student of patience. It's a virtue, non-commercial Strenuous like game from uptown dames get worked through Word, your curfew structure immobilization Spit out heat [?] elevation I'll erase your whole station with marks of punctuation [?] in H2O fluctuation Syntax era conjugation. L's relation to movement Is out abouts. Got vowels and consonants to prove it Our content knew it like rapping fluid with evasiveness Your hits adobo ‘cause my words have done erased your fit [Verse 4: Tru Persona] Semi-transmission signals like kites Brothers is mentally locked in the beast, released when the bragging rights Is all settled. Metal-on-metal to hit Washington Heights Cop hydro to make streetlights appear larger than life Still using a Pilot razor-point pen like a knife To split thoughts like Adam, pull one of his ribs off For show thought. Each word a part of me, consuming humans to feed my Alien arteries. Play me at parties on some old-school sh** I'll lock in like Atari cartridges, two barters in trade With the open marketers, but I'm undercover narc for the Hip hop monarchy, my target is merchants of mankind Soulsellers. The [?] your eyes and burn your wires dry “f** wack emcees”—quote-unquote. Least of my problems Why they delaying my pa**port to eat weak cuisine in Holland? Yo, I'll hold it down like I had to inject you with [?] Caffeine and B12. The moral is: n***a, don't sleep well