| HITS THE HEAD |
| MC Serch, S. Anslem, D. Stock, J McLaughlin Drum and Keyboard Programming: Skeff Anslem Recorded and Mixed by Kevin Reynolds at Chung King Studios, New York City, NY Assistant Engineers: John Kogan, Diego Garrido Performed by MC Serch Contains samples of the following: You Know by John McLaughlin Smoke House by David Stock |
| Verse 1 |
| Bodies all around start checkin for the substance the context you suspect, but I expect when Serchlite hits the break.. .. headache BREAK FOOL with the groove that's strictly metropolitan pass go, I'll let you go again the pen emulates what's heard from the four wheel and Babyface ain't never seen this crazy whip appeal sealed with the hits and blow cause I got hits to go fists to flow Michel'le Michelle-low under the mistletoe I let my missile go, yo hands get pound, when it comes down to slick rhymes no respect in the deuce cool I'm vickin mines furnished in New York kids that rolled diesel kids swoll big like they were shootin up an AIDS needle so cling to your mom's memories calamity's a remedy to recollect childhood memory lane envision, the picture, the frame the beat that rumbles into the brain stains grim gloom carefree feelin up a buildin cap peelin slash from the unwillin blastin off passin off to the prevention locked in detention wielding fiends, your dome starts STRETCHIN to hit the hot spot, and stomp hysterical the groove that makes you thank God for miracles pinnacles are peakin there you find Serch hittin heads until the head hurts |
| Verse 2 |
| Rhythm rung gets designed for the kind that's the deaf the dumb and blind seen here and stated with that and if you're not gonna hit that, let me rip that rhythm hit the rhymes, we give 'em we leave 'em then we'll ghost to the most so the concrete is secured to endure, three-hundred and sixty-five days of the unsure is the way the crumb comes poppin that's why these boots were made for stompin comp is little to none, when the riddle is sung when who is rappin no beats gets paid the answer as he gets sprayed by the kids who survived the playground, of the steel who used a fat and funky, as a sort of shiv Deal to the crew that rolls in battalions if water was slaughter I'd have to order by the gallon pesticides killed the pests the rest are out the back like sweats so jump out the projects, out the building out your condo, out your crib, out your co-op and let me rip the hip-hop again oh shit, Skeff Anslem, he gets props again let out the grunt, let out the funk from out your trunk feel the bass and let it PUMP PUMP PUMP |
| Verse 3 |
| I ain't got no DJ, but that's alright I ain't got no dancers, but that's alright I ain't got no choir, but that's alll-riiiiight all I got left is the mic SO STRIKE UP THE BAND MAN, as I command man float up the damn damn, wash away the flim-flam knick-knack quick wack paddywack, give a dog a stick then hop off my dialect quick to the throat I choke I I need a Coke cause I got somethin in my throat AHHA-AHEM! Better let no one get no one up gassed here on the throttle catch a back of a forty bottle models can't roll put a toll into the parkin meter crowds around two kids in a four seater pack attack crunch from the boom to give a brother room to breathe leave and pull the card our your sleeve you're free to roam as the beat hits the head until you gets home |