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letra de laying blame - hilltop hoods


[verse one — suffa]
i gave birth to half these styles, you should pay me rhyme support,
like billy jean suing michael jackson for child support,
rhyme is thought, what is it? lethal, d-mn you’ll get hurt,
cos i xl like the tag on my shirt,
i’ll have these rappers easing back, rhyme with a swagger,
feed your girl aphrodisiacs and hide your v–gr-,
if pain was diabetes, rhyme would be my insulin,
i’m taking out the insolent in an instant when
they bring the rhyme; i’ll battle if you wanna tussle,
a single line can turn that fatty matter into muscle,
you stagnate, while my rhymes circulate like rumours,
your living proof that god has a sense of humour,
i’m b-tter made from the cream that came from the crop,
i’ll move the mountain to mohammed scream my name from the top,
and proclaim what i got, boy, so give me headroom,
these clubs are full of more toys than spoilt kids bedrooms,
when i’m on stage i might lose my breath,
cos i got so much heart that there’s no room in my chest,
left for lungs, yes the bests yet
to come, my rhymes like a hand around your neck,
constricting your breathing like snakebites and beestings,
i’m all up in these -rs-holes faces like g-strings,
i searched the world for opposition but i fear the
only compet-tion i found was in a mirror.

[verse two — pressure]
when pressure steps to the batters plate you salivate, known to captivate,
i have to break new barriers like when a chaste nun m-st-rb-t-s,
if one more critic asks me what i do, i’ll slap them mate,
and tell them i’m a rapper as i strap her up in gaffer tape,
loudmouths make me wanna flip,
mcs only dream they got a grip, and wake up with their hand on their d-ck,
honest, if they ride the nuts i tell the get off me,
cos i’m unstable like a cradle bridge, so don’t cross me,
i’m highly explosive; you’re a child playing with matches,
i break rappers you give hairline fractures,
these actors keep it real? you’re really wak it’s fact,
you spit one-liners while i spit the finest chapters,
perhaps it’s time to retire the mic,
like the bulls should have done son, cos no-one wants to be like,
that anymore, cos nowadays you’re taken on a fantasy tour,
of c-ke, guns and gold when they’re actually poor,
factually flawed, yet entertaining,
i guess it how far we’re willing to go to satisfy a craving,
make them swallow their tongues like epileptics,
then i’ll respect it, i come clean as if my lube was antiseptic,
so blow me, you still couldn’t rhyme fresh,
i’m on a higher level of divineness, so call me your highness,
there’s only three things that are certain in life,
death, taxes and hilltop hood working the mic.