Chicago Barbeque Songtext / Lyric

UHH



qwel



summer heat stroke

have a heat stroke






so this one joe goes there was this flow that boasts he totes a gun

dont know his promo caught some fingers up till he saw both of them

but now his shit is jaded

played himself, hes gonna see me

checked me once, stepped, said whats up, and copped another cd

me be hell breathing back

he needs to ask to spar with qwel

start to scar your shell toes

i suppose its hard to tell

the battles half the lesson

the cats strapped with automat four sevens

beat you half to death twice

send white light back for seconds

rest when less than me aint good enough

hoods and thugs rough wont cut it

what if all this tough rug thug stuff aint really what what is

is it my job to own this fucking mic until it starts to melt

the dark starts to yell

i suppose its hard to tell

start to yell back

but theres not enough mics to rock

he likes to flow

but the dikes are locked

on his writing spot

theres too many mc's

and not enough mics to rock

he like to flow

but the dikes he like to strike with mics are locked a lot

there was this other joe once

covered in gold front ego

im butter with mics

he stutters with ice

and wonder where that weed go

he showed prose in his time

compose lies his rib cage

hungry not just for my mic

blocked every blow with his face

and now he spits with a limp

and thinks his shits a zeplin

the blimps his head wet to the ground gassed

drowned, and unleaded

found his rep, disconnected

his best shit was pantomime!

jagged his chance to shine impressed

he left a fan of mine

grab the mic for sale

and barter rap to use

but lost to qwel again

who had to snag an autograph for proof ...



just one more time ...

just one more time ...

for the last time ...

caught a heat stroke ...



man second hand contact is cancerous

the trouble with guessin is

doublin questions is

all the answers did

ask your man to spit, shit

we bendove

no shenanigans

brandishin claims you fucked inannimate

nope the pen broke

but aint it grand makin mannequin

canned amusement

and all the while, man

the fans can't stand the music

the producers credits is

with the critics rappin crevices

offensive

get in line

we help design them flippin fetishes

the measurements are evidence aint nobody tight

cuz when he spit veterans bite like, oh but hes right

insight precise incisions witness witty wisdom like

the system bustin out the seams with dreams are lived in this mind