L-Fudge - WUSB Freestyle lyrics

[Verse 1: L-Fudge] Yo, check it out. I don't know if should start rhyming straight off the top Or should I just blow up the spot with something that's in my notepad My flow's bad. You must be stupid. I'm aiming at n***as With my arrow as if my name was Cupid I rip a fat sample and I loop it. My brother Oceana I'll have people coming around the mountain just like Susana I am a not a gamma ray, but I don't be a gam or gay But I switch up my style and parlay Like my man to my right. I ignite to cypher Spit on your face with saliva. That's how it'd be. Ayyo, I could Just represent in the air. (*Nonsense*) I could stutter And still make this sh** sound bu*ter—that's word to mother These lyrics that I utter be like, “God damn. That n***a L-Fudge Really is the man.” I expand like headbands. Ayyo, I'm like a dead man Walking because I be talking and people want to k** me Fulfill these dreams? You must be, um, going crazy I leave you like a ghost like Patrick Swayze. I never cease To amaze the crowd. Ayyo, rappers get often plowed Less if you was a, uh, whatever you call it But I eat rappers up like Whatchamacallits You'll forfeit this battle. I'll slice n***as in the neck Place ‘em in saran wrap and sell ‘em by the pound like cattle You must skedaddle. I'll leave you and my alternate rhymes as, uh, which Is not shadow. Trying to get through doing the doggy paddle My raw (*Nonsense*)... I can't believe this But, sir, I've been freaking flows since I was a fetus I be talking crap. I originate flows straight often as Bust raps as if I was a gun and my lyrics was a cap I originate flows straight off the naps, which would be the head That's how it be. I be fracturing your skull as if I was lead Shot from a gun. I sprung as if I was a spring I leave rappers hanging like ding-a-lings. Ayyo, I never sing In my track. But I just get gats. Uh, that must be stupid Because I don't, uh, represent that stuff. I knew sh** stupid (*Nonsense*). I is going on again Because I don't know what's going on, but word is bond I catch more casualties and that is, uh, Vietnam. I got an iller mentality Than that of Saddam. "Let's Git In On" just like Smif-N-Wessun I'll start testing rappers who ain't impressing. Then I start Penetrating through your bulletproof vest and sending messages That be subliminal. Sheisty individual. Step up in My direction and you gets cut off like an umbilical Left in critical condition. These lyrics that I'm spitting Submitting into a rhyme, has the average emcee sh**ting Uh, so, yo. Let me just do this Go ahead, bless that, bless that, bless that [Verse 2: Pumpkinhead] Over here, representing with the dread They call me Pumpkinhead, leaving all these wack emcees dead Ayyo, I'm fed like a FBI agent I leave emcees running, holding their waistes Saying that, “Pumpkinhead is never tasteless.” I got the flavor I come through with the major like a guy in the army Emcees can't harm me. I come through and I swarm, G Like a bunch of bees. Emcees can't see me. I be the P-U-M-P K-I-N-H-E-A-D, representing NYC. Emcees, you couldn't play me If I had a CD attached to my chest Yo, I'll come through and I'll play emcees from East to West South to the North, emcees know I get off When I come through, I'll leave emcees tossed. Yo, I Uh, I be that lyricist that's not trying to hear this Wackness. Emcees, you're slacking I'll be coming through with the backing of the Makin' Leaving emcees cracking and quaking and Like a San Francisco earthquake, emcees, you shake in Your boots. I'll come through I and I troops with the troops And we don't do Loops. We no Fruit emcees You'll get done real quickly and my rhymes are never sickly I'll be rocking the green Aéropostale. I'm hostile When I come through, leaving emcees hanging by the follicles Yo, I'll come through with the ill, tight Intellectual, leaving emcees. I'm infecting crews By the minute, by the hour like Ebola Spreading through the conditioners, your air conditioners I'll be that mister. They call me Mr. PH Emcees cannot relate when I debate. Yo, you deflate I come through. Yo, my man J-Live You should have just cut me off. Just come on, man [Verse 3: J-Live] They're selling me the gutter mouth, but that's not my style bu*ter-soft, yo, I'm the type to let you do your thing Lets you rock it for a second ‘cause I hate when heads cut my wisdom But I still bring light like a prism Yes, refract it in mad, mad flavors. From green To yellow to red. Every single color up in here Yes, you know it. Everybody, yo, doing their own thing But I'ma still have to swing ‘cause "The Lump Lump" Is all in my system. I just got off the tables You will have to excuse me if I seem unable To rhyme off the head. Nah, what the hell am I talking about? ‘Cause I'll be doing it at the same time, cutting with the rhyme But not today because the mic is not long enough I wonder if my rhyme is strong enough. I called your bluff Because you know it is. Yes, indeed. My name is not The Biz, so you won't hear no beatbox at the same time As the rhyme because I think that's humanly impossible I think anyone who says they can do this lots of bull I don't know if you heard what I just said because I did not Even hear it myself. And it's all up in my mind So I'ma think and, in case my foul ain't refined I'ma pa** it to the next in case I go Boogie Blind [Verse 4: L-Fudge] My mental radar plays part of my everyday living You ain't part of my family ties, son. See, as I'm robbing Giving to the needy, ruthlessly battering emcees Practicing battling like knights in the medieval days, using as targets: Emcees who portray n***as who paid the illegal way Y'all like, “Who's he to say who keeps it real?” But L-Fudge reveals the truth Your lyrics are about as flat as last year's bubblegoose Talking that riffraff when you're sweeter than giftwrap. All your résumés, photos, and demos Get sent back. Reciting that neck crap, I'll give n***as concussions These n***as I'm feeding you n***as ain't appropriate for consumption Verbally seducting, infatuating. Puncturing n***a punctuating Punks are waiting for directions to the restroom, so resume d**h games Flaming ga**es released from glands hidden inside my oral Opposing emcees drop left to right from Kombat Immortal I give abbreviations, abrasion from paragraph lacerations I had to do with Jesus having Lazarus reawaken Reincarnating this culture called hip hop, so stand clear Of the closing doors. 200th Street, Manhattan's the next stop It's a damn shame how emcees lack creativity and had to result To brand-name bottles of champagne to get ahead of this rap game They can't match my pedigree. Steadily staying ahead Of these emcees. Combining words like medleys I'm diluting the confusion, distracting n***as with illusions So I could have enough time to come up with the proper solution to end this pollution Major distribution, they couldn't metamorphosize me. Stick to your substitutes I remain breaking emcees like falls from parachutes Absolutely don't promote material things within my rendition Of being an emcee. Check the stats. I'm in the top three Of artists who far from choppy. Stop the money magnetism To enroll in my cla** of rap, you gots to pay tuition. Face the realism Going against Fudge is like a prism, experiencing racism Claiming that you've done faced prison. n***a, your style's common like denim Show me your gratitude for putting n***as in their place like longitude Or latitude. Claiming you get high, but wouldn't be able to measure my altitude Stop the attitude you're giving me. n***a, you wouldn't be able to hang In the institute of R-A-P, you're a failure. Weight of my rhymes can impale ya Permanently impair ya. Purposely infecting all emcees With the disease called malaria. You ain't different When Fudge flows, n***as stop producing like male impotence Lyrical significance verbally magnificent Locking n***as down like imprisonment behind my gray bars What? Some being was in the range of my radar [Verse 5: J-Live] Rappers couldn't come hard with Jada Pinkett sitting bu*t-naked in their lap. Black, who deserves a slap? Stepping in my face with all of that pase hoopla Hoorah. Yeah, OK. You had your say [?]. Everything's [?] Claiming bu*ter when it's Parkay, I Can't Believe It's Not Blowing up the spot. What they got? Jack sh**. Attack sh** Like that sh**'s on my wall. I label it “What Not to Get” To remind me who's behind me On this emcee hierarchy, where you think you'll find me? “Keep Risin' to the Top” just like Doug E. or, better yet, the Original outlier with the greatest residual Brothers try to copy, so they imitate and emulate My style is Greater than Alexander I'm out to make the wackest rappers repent. Your style is just A figment of no imagination. There's no exaggeration If rap was good as s**, then they'd have to call you Grandmaster -bation. Find another occupation Next time your boys speak on hip hop I'ma pull your card just for being in the conversation Your sh** is... nah, your sh** is carnation. What in Tarnation led you to believe there was a relation? f** it ‘cause I don't even have the patience. It's like Waiting on a quadriplegic for a standing ovation ‘Cause the contingencies I see from emcees is: One minute they flow and, the next minute, they freeze What's the matter? I thought your style was fatter than far But, in the heat of battle, your rebu*tal's weaker than your bladder You're better off trying to climb Jacob's Ladder So when that gla** jaw drops on over, I'ma watch it get shattered ‘Cause all that chitchatter ain't sh** when they're fiending for a So-called cypher and n***as be scared to set it Regret it. You shouldn't have let it wake the demon in me Excuse me if I'm seeming unfriendly But I'll be quick to kick a page off the head ‘cause n***as know I want to really pa** the mic to the knot, this dread named O To-the-C-E-A-N because I Z-E-N. My man here Fronting on the mic, but, yo, I like his styles So I'm pa**ing it on, calling him out. What the hell is it about? [Verse 6: Ocean (of Natural Resource)] Let's take this back to the days of MC Shan and Marley Marl And I bet not too many of y'all will last past that wack-a** [?] It's always on your face like you some [?] I'm sick of the party, I'm sick of the bullsh**, and that [?] naturally Steadily, we do and let you know hip hop's not ruined Due to the fact, not to be black, said the Boston star Bruin Every time you got on stage, you opened bottles of malt liquor And the sh**s that made you sicker and sicker and sick of the Damn, n***as! Eat ‘em up. L, chill Sit down with your money-making a**es with the pill These hardcore sh**s go way too far—heads are pilled And, personally, I think most of all your nonsense is no for real