Styles, Crews, Flows, Beats
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Lyrics
Why it's a laboratory
And that gentle looking little guy
Can he be behind all this?
You, your crew and we
We're forced to break you down 'til your eyes can't see
'Til the day comes when you feel that sonic drum
Your dogs can't speak 'cause the cat got your tongue
You, your crew and we
We're forced to break you down 'til your eyes can't see
'Til the day comes when you feel that sonic drum
Your dogs can't speak 'cause the cat got your tongue
Plus up your cerebellum at a hella rate, tell 'em wait
You're not gonna see me kick thirty
Freestyle lines and watch your ass regenerate
Lines I rejuvenate, Jack elevates
My levels of thinking so you can't even tell your fate
When my freestyle rhyme starts to accelerate
I'll step back in the B-boy stance, style will start to innovate
On seventy-five percent of signed niggas who can't participate
Wait for the right time to rain on niggas, come and precipitate
Damn I hate, two-faced brothers always agitate
First off, place your head on the mantle and watch it decapitate
I rhyme early, like Laverne and Shirley, you rap late
Spit a L in my chest, can your ill-egantness rap relate
When Jack infiltrates, on all you wack niggas who manipulate
Brothers irritate, watch a liquid MC step up and irrigate
Still I wait, for the right time when Wildchild's feeling great
Hungry 'cause I got the munchies and my rhyme style's still an eight
L's in the air, sisters yelling "Loop to the pack"
Closing up an open section, brothers screw right to the back
Before my rap attacks, you're waxed out 'cause you lack
And all you hear from the crowd is "We wanna hear Cracka Jack"
I kick a freestyle, brothers know I don't come wack
You're already clapping at, a dope-ass Madlib track
Matter of fact, Wildchild, known to pick up the slack
Known to pick up a wack MC straight by the nap
Asking us "Why you rap?" 'Cause I might tightly strap
You in the seat 'til you wanna trip straight to the boom bap
Style, if it wasn't for the style it would be
Hard for me to show my culture profile
What about the crew? If it wasn't for the crew it would be
Only lonely me paying dues
Don't forget the flow, if it wasn't for the flow
Possibly how could I suppose I could rock the shows?
What about the beats? The beats
It's Madlib, Backkid, Wildchild, DJ Bones
Peanut Butter Wolf
In this Stones Throw era
You know we bringing it
West Coast
How we do
We drop shit like some architects
Spark and get lit to make some underground hits
Madlib the Backkid, we drop original
Precise conceptual, house and wood
Innovation nine thousand
We keep it business like Eric and Parish
Have you hyped like '89 like we bugging on terrace
Sometimes on the low pro, your style's like a no-show
We coming from the O, but we do
Loquaz representing Quasimoto
Digger Butter's on the drum set
I grab the mic to run wreck
I have you hyped like illegal gun sets
Plus the beat conductor got my back, attack
Whenever, whoever, you wanna test me
We roll the dome crack
The bad character you see up on the screen
We keep it clean like a diamond ring
Or dirty like a one night fling
You gots to let us do our thing
We drop the loops with static clean
While we stepping on the scene
Yo it's the Loop Digger, man it's the Loop Digger
My nigga, my nigga
Yo it's the Loop Digger
Loquaz in the pack and it's peace like grease
For fried chicken (What you mean?)
Or for AstroBlack's chicken
Niggas talking shit, yo watch the plot thicken
I leave y'all suckers with your auditory sickened
(Who case on you?)
Like Wild Man Fisher
If there's trouble in the West, we bring the juice like we Bishop
I smack your bitch up, like a pimp
On a slow high, your whole zoo could get ripped up, that's no lie
Quasimoto in the pack, we keep it raw like sex
Or mic check on the sets