[{"id":30571774,"name":"Straight Spittin","trackName":"Straight Spittin","artistName":"Flipmode Squad","albumName":"The Imperial [by Hillside]","duration":284.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, huh, uh\n\nI bust all you cats in the game for malpractice\nI'm in Jersey (Uh), where I'm payin' no taxes\nI stick your girl, Agnes (Uh), Flipmode bring the madness (Madness)\nPlatinum status (Uh), Rampage, I'm the baddest (Baddest)\nCheck the credit (Uh), yo, you might as well dead it (Dead it)\nI said it (What?), fuck the edit, it's uncut (Cut)\nNigga, what? (What?), it's crunch time for me to shine (Shine)\nI'ma show you easily for me to take mine\nPass my nickel-plated nine (Nine), call me Einstein ('Stein)\nI'm buckin' shots two times to stick you for your rhymes (Rhymes)\nPut you in a pine box\nYo, and your whole family's on detox\nHustlin' crack (Uh) to weedbox (Uh), holy socks (Yeah)\nCut you with my ox (Ox), Rampage got the city locked\nIn your function (Uh) to the Flatbush junction\nCausin' rambunction (Uh), watch me do you somethin', uh\n\nBaby Sham on some new shit, new and exclusive\nFive-three, caramel, tight grip on a four-fifth\nLeave 'em all stiff, blow smoke from this foul drift\nNigga with the sick story, throw 'em off the cliff\nAs I speak this shit to put my name on the list (What? What?)\nA small thug with a slug, put a mark on his wrist\nA tattoo of pyramids, puttin' hollows in clips\nPeeped your gat jammed, type rush, you lookin' to riff\nQ-B's is type sick 'cause we runnin' your clique\nSee me in the drop with your six, sayin' she snitched\nBut never that, cuzzo, high beams through the windows (Uh)\nMy lookouts move slow, they heard you never blast those\nGot a safe in your crib, Sham, you know the code\nSerge spoke out, \"Three, two, one, dash, zero\"\nTook the C-notes and Flipmode left on the quietest snow\nSwallow these to clear your throat, bitch-ass, you should've spoke\n\n(Gimme a F) Fuck the bullshit, fire my gun\nFly a nigga head, fuckin' for fun, fuck where you from\n(Gimme a L) Layin' on beaches, killin' all leeches\nLove to break a liar face, pick up the pieces, yo\n(Gimme the I) Intelligence eliminates all irrelevance\nIcon of immaculate rhyme common sense\n(Gimme a P) Powerful, professional, poppin' my pistol\nMake a pack of people paranoid like twenty pitbulls\n(Gimme a M) Master of missions, make all decisions\nHead-on collisions, massacre the meat rack, ask the women\n(Gimme a O) Got niggas open, open heart surgery\nRhyme so official, overthrow government, shit is nursery\n(Gimme a D) Diggin' my dick all inside your chick\nDominate the heavyweight division, rhymin' district\n(Gimme a E) Everlastin' slang, eternal ebonics\nLyrical emails stabilize livin' in all my economics\n(Squad) Group of men, women, unified force, squadron\nMovin' like one in unison, I beg your pardon\n\n(Duh) What they call me? A hundred on a Harley (Yeah)\nOut of nowhere and keep it surfin' like Brawley (What?)\nMarley, I'm the bitch with the hits though\nWoody Woodpecker, LL at the Bristol\nOfficial stamp (Yeah), hold it down in tramp (Yeah)\nThen link up at the Tunnel with the rest of my camp (I got)\nPaper like Mead, I'm in the mix like speed\nAnd be screamin' on the mic 'til my tonsils bleed (Yeah)\nYeah, that's the way it is like when a kid get christened (Yeah)\nLike comin' to the Bricks to find your whip missin'\nI rock it uptown on down to West Houston\nHouston, peace to my bitches that's boostin'\nAfter juicin', I'ma straight black all the rappers (Damn, uh)\nTap a nigga nerves like them hackers (Uh-huh, yeah)\nBe doin' on the modem, I get the call from the dispatcher (Hawks)\nTo show them motherf'ers what I'm after\n\nYo, I backslap a wack MC for tryna be somethin' he not\nPull his card, blow off his spot\nNigga talk about murder but ain't committin' none (Uh-huh)\nNiggas talk about gats but ain't bustin' one (Not at all)\nYo, I see you in the club portrayin' like you a thug (Uh-huh)\nYeah, your man got a gat but he ain't bustin' near a slug\nYou's a local block spokesman, I'll split your front open (Facts)\nVicious knife wound, fucked up like Ron Goldman\nSpliff I split, fully equipped for any bullshit\nGrew up with the bad and ugly, quick to pull shit\nIgnorant, vulgar, on your tape recorder\nIdol to your son and probably lover to your daughter\nFat Man's son, Mildred's grandson (Uh-huh)\nShirley's nephew, Frankie cousin (Uh-\nHuh, one more time, Spliff, come on, son)\nBust my gun like Colombians (Yeah)\nMake niggas collapse like fucked up lungs\n\nBetter obey the law of the land\nOr lay still like soldiers of fortune in 'Nam\nClosed coffin with flags folded in half\nTriangular shape, blow out the candles with grace\nFor fabulous taste, some'll battle for space\nAnd pay the ultimate price, poltergeist\nPut the Holy Ghost in your life, bring you closer to Christ\nFocus your dice when the vulture's in flight\nRe-sculpture the mic and smash heads like the opium bite\nProphet in vain (Ha), metropolis claim, body and soul\nID's controlled in the optical frame\nNever stoppin' the game, remove your squad with steady plans\nI'll body-slam punks like Superstar Billy Graham\n\nStraight spittin', hot street shit\nLyrically, we spittin'\nNiggas don't know how we gettin' on down, spittin'\nStraight spittin', word is bond, we straight spittin'\nFlipmode Squad niggas is rhymin' and spittin'\nFuck shit up everywhere and we straight spittin'\nLyrical ass-whoopin', niggas straight spittin'\nWe straight spittin'\nWe straight spittin'","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Straight Spittin\n  artist: Flipmode Squad\n  album: The Imperial [by Hillside]\n  duration_ms: 284000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, huh, uh\n\n  I bust all you cats in the game for malpractice\n  I'm in Jersey (Uh), where I'm payin' no taxes\n  I stick your girl, Agnes (Uh), Flipmode bring the madness (Madness)\n  Platinum status (Uh), Rampage, I'm the baddest (Baddest)\n  Check the credit (Uh), yo, you might as well dead it (Dead it)\n  I said it (What?), fuck the edit, it's uncut (Cut)\n  Nigga, what? (What?), it's crunch time for me to shine (Shine)\n  I'ma show you easily for me to take mine\n  Pass my nickel-plated nine (Nine), call me Einstein ('Stein)\n  I'm buckin' shots two times to stick you for your rhymes (Rhymes)\n  Put you in a pine box\n  Yo, and your whole family's on detox\n  Hustlin' crack (Uh) to weedbox (Uh), holy socks (Yeah)\n  Cut you with my ox (Ox), Rampage got the city locked\n  In your function (Uh) to the Flatbush junction\n  Causin' rambunction (Uh), watch me do you somethin', uh\n\n  Baby Sham on some new shit, new and exclusive\n  Five-three, caramel, tight grip on a four-fifth\n  Leave 'em all stiff, blow smoke from this foul drift\n  Nigga with the sick story, throw 'em off the cliff\n  As I speak this shit to put my name on the list (What? What?)\n  A small thug with a slug, put a mark on his wrist\n  A tattoo of pyramids, puttin' hollows in clips\n  Peeped your gat jammed, type rush, you lookin' to riff\n  Q-B's is type sick 'cause we runnin' your clique\n  See me in the drop with your six, sayin' she snitched\n  But never that, cuzzo, high beams through the windows (Uh)\n  My lookouts move slow, they heard you never blast those\n  Got a safe in your crib, Sham, you know the code\n  Serge spoke out, \"Three, two, one, dash, zero\"\n  Took the C-notes and Flipmode left on the quietest snow\n  Swallow these to clear your throat, bitch-ass, you should've spoke\n\n  (Gimme a F) Fuck the bullshit, fire my gun\n  Fly a nigga head, fuckin' for fun, fuck where you from\n  (Gimme a L) Layin' on beaches, killin' all leeches\n  Love to break a liar face, pick up the pieces, yo\n  (Gimme the I) Intelligence eliminates all irrelevance\n  Icon of immaculate rhyme common sense\n  (Gimme a P) Powerful, professional, poppin' my pistol\n  Make a pack of people paranoid like twenty pitbulls\n  (Gimme a M) Master of missions, make all decisions\n  Head-on collisions, massacre the meat rack, ask the women\n  (Gimme a O) Got niggas open, open heart surgery\n  Rhyme so official, overthrow government, shit is nursery\n  (Gimme a D) Diggin' my dick all inside your chick\n  Dominate the heavyweight division, rhymin' district\n  (Gimme a E) Everlastin' slang, eternal ebonics\n  Lyrical emails stabilize livin' in all my economics\n  (Squad) Group of men, women, unified force, squadron\n  Movin' like one in unison, I beg your pardon\n\n  (Duh) What they call me? A hundred on a Harley (Yeah)\n  Out of nowhere and keep it surfin' like Brawley (What?)\n  Marley, I'm the bitch with the hits though\n  Woody Woodpecker, LL at the Bristol\n  Official stamp (Yeah), hold it down in tramp (Yeah)\n  Then link up at the Tunnel with the rest of my camp (I got)\n  Paper like Mead, I'm in the mix like speed\n  And be screamin' on the mic 'til my tonsils bleed (Yeah)\n  Yeah, that's the way it is like when a kid get christened (Yeah)\n  Like comin' to the Bricks to find your whip missin'\n  I rock it uptown on down to West Houston\n  Houston, peace to my bitches that's boostin'\n  After juicin', I'ma straight black all the rappers (Damn, uh)\n  Tap a nigga nerves like them hackers (Uh-huh, yeah)\n  Be doin' on the modem, I get the call from the dispatcher (Hawks)\n  To show them motherf'ers what I'm after\n\n  Yo, I backslap a wack MC for tryna be somethin' he not\n  Pull his card, blow off his spot\n  Nigga talk about murder but ain't committin' none (Uh-huh)\n  Niggas talk about gats but ain't bustin' one (Not at all)\n  Yo, I see you in the club portrayin' like you a thug (Uh-huh)\n  Yeah, your man got a gat but he ain't bustin' near a slug\n  You's a local block spokesman, I'll split your front open (Facts)\n  Vicious knife wound, fucked up like Ron Goldman\n  Spliff I split, fully equipped for any bullshit\n  Grew up with the bad and ugly, quick to pull shit\n  Ignorant, vulgar, on your tape recorder\n  Idol to your son and probably lover to your daughter\n  Fat Man's son, Mildred's grandson (Uh-huh)\n  Shirley's nephew, Frankie cousin (Uh-\n  Huh, one more time, Spliff, come on, son)\n  Bust my gun like Colombians (Yeah)\n  Make niggas collapse like fucked up lungs\n\n  Better obey the law of the land\n  Or lay still like soldiers of fortune in 'Nam\n  Closed coffin with flags folded in half\n  Triangular shape, blow out the candles with grace\n  For fabulous taste, some'll battle for space\n  And pay the ultimate price, poltergeist\n  Put the Holy Ghost in your life, bring you closer to Christ\n  Focus your dice when the vulture's in flight\n  Re-sculpture the mic and smash heads like the opium bite\n  Prophet in vain (Ha), metropolis claim, body and soul\n  ID's controlled in the optical frame\n  Never stoppin' the game, remove your squad with steady plans\n  I'll body-slam punks like Superstar Billy Graham\n\n  Straight spittin', hot street shit\n  Lyrically, we spittin'\n  Niggas don't know how we gettin' on down, spittin'\n  Straight spittin', word is bond, we straight spittin'\n  Flipmode Squad niggas is rhymin' and spittin'\n  Fuck shit up everywhere and we straight spittin'\n  Lyrical ass-whoopin', niggas straight spittin'\n  We straight spittin'\n  We straight spittin'\n"},{"id":24328191,"name":"Straight Spittin'","trackName":"Straight Spittin'","artistName":"Flipmode Squad","albumName":"The Imperial","duration":283.693333,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, huh, uh\n\nI bust all you cats in the game for malpractice\nI'm in Jersey (Uh), where I'm payin' no taxes\nI stick your girl, Agnes (Uh), Flipmode bring the madness (Madness)\nPlatinum status (Uh), Rampage, I'm the baddest (Baddest)\nCheck the credit (Uh), yo, you might as well dead it (Dead it)\nI said it (What?), fuck the edit, it's uncut (Cut)\nNigga, what? (What?), it's crunch time for me to shine (Shine)\nI'ma show you easily for me to take mine\nPass my nickel-plated nine (Nine), call me Einstein ('Stein)\nI'm buckin' shots two times to stick you for your rhymes (Rhymes)\nPut you in a pine box\nYo, and your whole family's on detox\nHustlin' crack (Uh) to weedbox (Uh), holy socks (Yeah)\nCut you with my ox (Ox), Rampage got the city locked\nIn your function (Uh) to the Flatbush junction\nCausin' rambunction (Uh), watch me do you somethin', uh\n\nBaby Sham on some new shit, new and exclusive\nFive-three, caramel, tight grip on a four-fifth\nLeave 'em all stiff, blow smoke from this foul drift\nNigga with the sick story, throw 'em off the cliff\nAs I speak this shit to put my name on the list (What? What?)\nA small thug with a slug, put a mark on his wrist\nA tattoo of pyramids, puttin' hollows in clips\nPeeped your gat jammed, type rush, you lookin' to riff\nQ-B's is type sick 'cause we runnin' your clique\nSee me in the drop with your six, sayin' she snitched\nBut never that, cuzzo, high beams through the windows (Uh)\nMy lookouts move slow, they heard you never blast those\nGot a safe in your crib, Sham, you know the code\nSerge spoke out, \"Three, two, one, dash, zero\"\nTook the C-notes and Flipmode left on the quietest snow\nSwallow these to clear your throat, bitch-ass, you should've spoke\n\n(Gimme a F) Fuck the bullshit, fire my gun\nFly a nigga head, fuckin' for fun, fuck where you from\n(Gimme a L) Layin' on beaches, killin' all leeches\nLove to break a liar face, pick up the pieces, yo\n(Gimme the I) Intelligence eliminates all irrelevance\nIcon of immaculate rhyme common sense\n(Gimme a P) Powerful, professional, poppin' my pistol\nMake a pack of people paranoid like twenty pitbulls\n(Gimme a M) Master of missions, make all decisions\nHead-on collisions, massacre the meat rack, ask the women\n(Gimme a O) Got niggas open, open heart surgery\nRhyme so official, overthrow government, shit is nursery\n(Gimme a D) Diggin' my dick all inside your chick\nDominate the heavyweight division, rhymin' district\n(Gimme a E) Everlastin' slang, eternal ebonics\nLyrical emails stabilize livin' in all my economics\n(Squad) Group of men, women, unified force, squadron\nMovin' like one in unison, I beg your pardon\n\n(Duh) What they call me? A hundred on a Harley (Yeah)\nOut of nowhere and keep it surfin' like Brawley (What?)\nMarley, I'm the bitch with the hits though\nWoody Woodpecker, LL at the Bristol\nOfficial stamp (Yeah), hold it down in tramp (Yeah)\nThen link up at the Tunnel with the rest of my camp (I got)\nPaper like Mead, I'm in the mix like speed\nAnd be screamin' on the mic 'til my tonsils bleed (Yeah)\nYeah, that's the way it is like when a kid get christened (Yeah)\nLike comin' to the Bricks to find your whip missin'\nI rock it uptown on down to West Houston\nHouston, peace to my bitches that's boostin'\nAfter juicin', I'ma straight black all the rappers (Damn, uh)\nTap a nigga nerves like them hackers (Uh-huh, yeah)\nBe doin' on the modem, I get the call from the dispatcher (Hawks)\nTo show them motherf'ers what I'm after\n\nYo, I backslap a wack MC for tryna be somethin' he not\nPull his card, blow off his spot\nNigga talk about murder but ain't committin' none (Uh-huh)\nNiggas talk about gats but ain't bustin' one (Not at all)\nYo, I see you in the club portrayin' like you a thug (Uh-huh)\nYeah, your man got a gat but he ain't bustin' near a slug\nYou's a local block spokesman, I'll split your front open (Facts)\nVicious knife wound, fucked up like Ron Goldman\nSpliff I split, fully equipped for any bullshit\nGrew up with the bad and ugly, quick to pull shit\nIgnorant, vulgar, on your tape recorder\nIdol to your son and probably lover to your daughter\nFat Man's son, Mildred's grandson (Uh-huh)\nShirley's nephew, Frankie cousin (Uh-\nHuh, one more time, Spliff, come on, son)\nBust my gun like Colombians (Yeah)\nMake niggas collapse like fucked up lungs\n\nBetter obey the law of the land\nOr lay still like soldiers of fortune in 'Nam\nClosed coffin with flags folded in half\nTriangular shape, blow out the candles with grace\nFor fabulous taste, some'll battle for space\nAnd pay the ultimate price, poltergeist\nPut the Holy Ghost in your life, bring you closer to Christ\nFocus your dice when the vulture's in flight\nRe-sculpture the mic and smash heads like the opium bite\nProphet in vain (Ha), metropolis claim, body and soul\nID's controlled in the optical frame\nNever stoppin' the game, remove your squad with steady plans\nI'll body-slam punks like Superstar Billy Graham\n\nStraight spittin', hot street shit\nLyrically, we spittin'\nNiggas don't know how we gettin' on down, spittin'\nStraight spittin', word is bond, we straight spittin'\nFlipmode Squad niggas is rhymin' and spittin'\nFuck shit up everywhere and we straight spittin'\nLyrical ass-whoopin', niggas straight spittin'\nWe straight spittin'\nWe straight spittin'","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Straight Spittin'\n  artist: Flipmode Squad\n  album: The Imperial\n  duration_ms: 283693\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, huh, uh\n\n  I bust all you cats in the game for malpractice\n  I'm in Jersey (Uh), where I'm payin' no taxes\n  I stick your girl, Agnes (Uh), Flipmode bring the madness (Madness)\n  Platinum status (Uh), Rampage, I'm the baddest (Baddest)\n  Check the credit (Uh), yo, you might as well dead it (Dead it)\n  I said it (What?), fuck the edit, it's uncut (Cut)\n  Nigga, what? (What?), it's crunch time for me to shine (Shine)\n  I'ma show you easily for me to take mine\n  Pass my nickel-plated nine (Nine), call me Einstein ('Stein)\n  I'm buckin' shots two times to stick you for your rhymes (Rhymes)\n  Put you in a pine box\n  Yo, and your whole family's on detox\n  Hustlin' crack (Uh) to weedbox (Uh), holy socks (Yeah)\n  Cut you with my ox (Ox), Rampage got the city locked\n  In your function (Uh) to the Flatbush junction\n  Causin' rambunction (Uh), watch me do you somethin', uh\n\n  Baby Sham on some new shit, new and exclusive\n  Five-three, caramel, tight grip on a four-fifth\n  Leave 'em all stiff, blow smoke from this foul drift\n  Nigga with the sick story, throw 'em off the cliff\n  As I speak this shit to put my name on the list (What? What?)\n  A small thug with a slug, put a mark on his wrist\n  A tattoo of pyramids, puttin' hollows in clips\n  Peeped your gat jammed, type rush, you lookin' to riff\n  Q-B's is type sick 'cause we runnin' your clique\n  See me in the drop with your six, sayin' she snitched\n  But never that, cuzzo, high beams through the windows (Uh)\n  My lookouts move slow, they heard you never blast those\n  Got a safe in your crib, Sham, you know the code\n  Serge spoke out, \"Three, two, one, dash, zero\"\n  Took the C-notes and Flipmode left on the quietest snow\n  Swallow these to clear your throat, bitch-ass, you should've spoke\n\n  (Gimme a F) Fuck the bullshit, fire my gun\n  Fly a nigga head, fuckin' for fun, fuck where you from\n  (Gimme a L) Layin' on beaches, killin' all leeches\n  Love to break a liar face, pick up the pieces, yo\n  (Gimme the I) Intelligence eliminates all irrelevance\n  Icon of immaculate rhyme common sense\n  (Gimme a P) Powerful, professional, poppin' my pistol\n  Make a pack of people paranoid like twenty pitbulls\n  (Gimme a M) Master of missions, make all decisions\n  Head-on collisions, massacre the meat rack, ask the women\n  (Gimme a O) Got niggas open, open heart surgery\n  Rhyme so official, overthrow government, shit is nursery\n  (Gimme a D) Diggin' my dick all inside your chick\n  Dominate the heavyweight division, rhymin' district\n  (Gimme a E) Everlastin' slang, eternal ebonics\n  Lyrical emails stabilize livin' in all my economics\n  (Squad) Group of men, women, unified force, squadron\n  Movin' like one in unison, I beg your pardon\n\n  (Duh) What they call me? A hundred on a Harley (Yeah)\n  Out of nowhere and keep it surfin' like Brawley (What?)\n  Marley, I'm the bitch with the hits though\n  Woody Woodpecker, LL at the Bristol\n  Official stamp (Yeah), hold it down in tramp (Yeah)\n  Then link up at the Tunnel with the rest of my camp (I got)\n  Paper like Mead, I'm in the mix like speed\n  And be screamin' on the mic 'til my tonsils bleed (Yeah)\n  Yeah, that's the way it is like when a kid get christened (Yeah)\n  Like comin' to the Bricks to find your whip missin'\n  I rock it uptown on down to West Houston\n  Houston, peace to my bitches that's boostin'\n  After juicin', I'ma straight black all the rappers (Damn, uh)\n  Tap a nigga nerves like them hackers (Uh-huh, yeah)\n  Be doin' on the modem, I get the call from the dispatcher (Hawks)\n  To show them motherf'ers what I'm after\n\n  Yo, I backslap a wack MC for tryna be somethin' he not\n  Pull his card, blow off his spot\n  Nigga talk about murder but ain't committin' none (Uh-huh)\n  Niggas talk about gats but ain't bustin' one (Not at all)\n  Yo, I see you in the club portrayin' like you a thug (Uh-huh)\n  Yeah, your man got a gat but he ain't bustin' near a slug\n  You's a local block spokesman, I'll split your front open (Facts)\n  Vicious knife wound, fucked up like Ron Goldman\n  Spliff I split, fully equipped for any bullshit\n  Grew up with the bad and ugly, quick to pull shit\n  Ignorant, vulgar, on your tape recorder\n  Idol to your son and probably lover to your daughter\n  Fat Man's son, Mildred's grandson (Uh-huh)\n  Shirley's nephew, Frankie cousin (Uh-\n  Huh, one more time, Spliff, come on, son)\n  Bust my gun like Colombians (Yeah)\n  Make niggas collapse like fucked up lungs\n\n  Better obey the law of the land\n  Or lay still like soldiers of fortune in 'Nam\n  Closed coffin with flags folded in half\n  Triangular shape, blow out the candles with grace\n  For fabulous taste, some'll battle for space\n  And pay the ultimate price, poltergeist\n  Put the Holy Ghost in your life, bring you closer to Christ\n  Focus your dice when the vulture's in flight\n  Re-sculpture the mic and smash heads like the opium bite\n  Prophet in vain (Ha), metropolis claim, body and soul\n  ID's controlled in the optical frame\n  Never stoppin' the game, remove your squad with steady plans\n  I'll body-slam punks like Superstar Billy Graham\n\n  Straight spittin', hot street shit\n  Lyrically, we spittin'\n  Niggas don't know how we gettin' on down, spittin'\n  Straight spittin', word is bond, we straight spittin'\n  Flipmode Squad niggas is rhymin' and spittin'\n  Fuck shit up everywhere and we straight spittin'\n  Lyrical ass-whoopin', niggas straight spittin'\n  We straight spittin'\n  We straight spittin'\n"}]