Louis Logic - Mother Molesters lyrics

[Intro: Majik Most and Celph Titled] [Majik Most] Yeah. Chelsea Clinton. Where you at b**h? [Celph Titled Speaking] Yeeeaaahhhh! You monkey motherf**ers This is Celph Titled, the motherf**in' Trife-A-Saurus Rex And I've got my motherf**in' n***a Majik Most About to molest every female b**h in your f**in' family You want more info? Dial 1-900-Get-f**ed-Up For twenty-five stitches a minute I don't give a f** if you're handicapped You talk that sh**, I'll bust a handy cap in that a** Yo, Majik, bust them in the head and leave 'em retarded Bring that sh**, n***a! [Verse 1: Majik Most] Yo, Majik Most is here now—stop tryna rhyme Even your mom says you just wastin' your time I'll catch you in line as you apply for Medicaid And beat you in the skull with a prosthetic leg Majik's got it made, all in-between your girl's thighs Any tough guys get smashed and pulverized I'm off the hook like fish alibi's—why diss? It's high risk, try this, die quick in your whip With a windshield wiper through your iris You not feelin' this? I'll crush your grandmother's hip Then strip the emergency bracelet off her wrist I love to shoot the gift Man, I rock a Santa suit when inside a vocal booth I'll blast you through the roof Just to show and prove Oh you still want beef? (ah ha ha) I'll bust your chops f** you up like a Cyclops in a weed spot with no eye drops, motherf**ers! Hip hop is back (yeah yeah) But you're a f*ggot in drag Rockin' a dress That used to be your dad's I'll choke you with your do-rag Slam you on a concrete slab—oh, you mad?! 'Cause Majik Most is so dope, I whack kids Hijack the city bus with my man Dutchma**ive Hit the strip club—Celph and Ap got free pa**es Every verse I write, considered cla**ic [Verse 2: Apathy] Yo, I suplex Superman like a girl in a skirt Bury you in the dirt, rappers get placed in a world of hurt You tryin' to mack a dame but your game doesn't work You should feel lame and ashamed when you go home and jerk 'Cause I be havin' big titty b**hes buying my shirt While you lurkin' in the bushes with a perverted smirk So jealous of the way that I be ridin' the track You put your Walkman on my rap and fantasize that you're Ap But I'll be sh**tin' on you nerd motherf**ers for fun 'Til I make you mad enough to come to school with a gun Beat you up until you cry and take your money for lunch Or they'll be mopping up your face by the twentieth punch You f*ggots get ghost, puttin' holes in the fabric of clothes My automatic blows metal through the back of your domes I'm mackin' your hoes Rapper flows that'll roast opponents Who play me close or battle with Majik Most [Verse 3: Louis Logic] Stop a second and drop your weapon b**h (biiitch!) I meant to k** you back when the doctor stepped in and said your mom was pregnant Stomp the section of her stomach where a baby doll sleeps Roast beef with both feet wearing weighted golf cleats Leave behind a blood trail and a bottle of Seagram's Gin Covered in my bloody finger print and blame my evil twin But since I didn't see you there, I'll burn your studio And fill your top with warm slugs like you turned marsupial I'm like a savage bushman chargin' through the outback I'll kick you in your a**'s cushion whether with or without rap Whether with or without Ap, Celph, or Majik Most I'll smash your nose and drag your ghost right out from your fractured bones I'll have your folks singin' church songs, dressed in black Your former fan's only question asked is: "Where's that herb gone?" I'll stab you, carve you with a sharp knife and tag you With bad news so you know my name and what have you [Verse 4: Celph Titled] A lot of rappers gonna die this year and that's the truth And I'll probably end up responsible for a few Communication ain't a problem—my guns speak all languages Gimme what I want or be a dumb n***a—brainless! I'm the complete opposite with drug fiend chicks I know straight-edge b**hes that'll smoke crack to s** my dick Floss through your hood and stack chips by the cases I've got more whips than a slave-master dominatrix I won't even do a cameo—I get paid for my ad-libs Visit your girl and f** her from her baby-back ribs You might as well go snow-skiing or somethin' For the only chance you'll get to rock ice without frontin' Throw a monkey wrench in your program—make you go ape sh** Attach your head to a launching space ship—give you a face lift It's basic: bury your corpse under the basement I'm ill enough to start a drug war with the Jamaicans Don't make me have to pop your collar bone Put the silence on the chrome and let my Rottweilers roam Thirsty for blood, ready to shatter your brain I talk a lot of sh** on records but I can back up my claims Motherf**er!