You Hear Me Son

M.V.L.L. (ft. Cron Hypnostein, Roy Rukkus, and A.B.) - “You Hear Me Son”
[Emcee(s): Cron Hypnostein, Roy Rukkus, and A.B.]
[Producer(s): Will Tell]
[Additional Vocals: Ces]

[Intro: Cron Hypnostein]
Cron and who? (NY, step). M-V-L-L (We’re the massive. Don’t pass us)

[Verse 1: Cron Hypnostein]
Cron and wack rap don’t mix like tuxedos
And backpacks from back, whole backslaps. You need to
Backtrack your half act. Kids act like
QBG from baypack. Take that
Where’s my aim at? Matter of fact, where’s your brain at?
I can’t focus on the payback. [?]
Coughing knapsacks. Drunk heart gaze at
The train track. Who can explain that? (Who?)
I derailed on the same track driving, so where your rain hat?
Cover your hard cap. Stopping me?
Sustain that take-back-fame rap. Already impact
Crack that with a steady swing of black DAT
Fracture your skull cap. Splat fat
And you fall back, lay flat like a doormat
Mmm poor haps, they’ve been mishap. Hmm. And I
Miss that, sit back, twist black, sipping cognac
Conducted over dap, floor to gats
Across the map, niggas don’t cross my path
Underestimate destruction’s warpath
I’ll flow past, blow dro, raps. You know that?
So hold that, a Roman toast rap
And you ain’t want it with this chromatose cat, who’d over-
-dose you to that, expose you to the fact more than you expected
Raw and reckless. Ah, the letter ain’t said it
Before I exit, slip the headers (Right here)

[Interlude 1: Ces]
(Yeah, yeah) Shhh. Niggas don’t know, son. One, two, three times? How many times we got to tell ‘em, yo? M-V-double-L for life. Keep it real, yo

[Hook: A.B.]
Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type trife in the streets
If you ain’t got heat, son, you ain’t ready for beef
Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type raw when I score
Draw with four-fours, nigga, put a hole in your jaw
Ayyo, you hear me, son? All that shit you talking is dumb
Stalk him for fun, take his heat away and watch a nigga run
Ayyo, you hear me, son? You feeling that, black? Flowers attack
You play me too close, nigga, and your shell’ll get cracked

[Verse 2: Roy Rukkus]
So you nice and shit, right? You hype and shit, right?
You the bomb? Should that mean I’m ‘posed to like your shit? Wrong
You get the long gong on some Hong Kong type of shit
Just to be precise and shit, fuck your life and shit
Strive to spit. You better go the right route. Flow like
I can’t play baseball—strike out. Lights out
Clap off, blast off. You’re mad soft
What? You hot? It’s cool. If not, pass off
Straight up, niggas want to knock me like backdoors. I’ll leave
Your body like a coupon—that shit’ll be half off
Hear that, boss? Crash courses—yeah, that cat loss
Rap forces powerful enough to expand pores
Garbage niggas’ll get dropped. Was you considerate?
No? Hell, if I dropped you, the shit’d be called littering
Woah! You act just like a bickering ho. You ain’t
Hard, nigga. You’re more like a dick when it grow

[Hook: A.B.]
Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type trife in the streets
If you ain’t got heat, son, you ain’t ready for beef
Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type raw when I score
Draw with four-fours, nigga, put a hole in your jaw
Ayyo, you hear me, son? All that shit you talking is dumb
Stalk him for fun, take his heat away and watch a nigga run
Ayyo, you hear me, son? You feeling that, black? Flowers attack
You play me too close, nigga, and your shell’ll get cracked

[Verse 3: A.B.]
Ayyo, slayer, player, you ain’t ready for
The majors. I’ll lay ya, then spray ya
Don’t make me fade ya, bang ya with razors
Blaze ya—won’t miss. I’ll probably graze ya
With phasers, run in your crib, taking your wages
Pages. Then I go see your wife and blaze her
Crazed, huh? A nigga iso, stay amazing
They call me the caterer the way I’m serving niggas
I’m hurting niggas. I’ll put my work in, nigga. Why you trying to jerk
This nigga? Still, y’all claiming certain niggas. Y’all straight-up
Cock-slurping, nigga. I’ll turn one into four figures
Squeeze triggers now. Don’t tell me how I feel, nigga

[Hook: A.B.]
Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type trife in the streets
If you ain’t got heat, son, you ain’t ready for beef
Ayyo, you hear me, son? Shit is type raw when I score
Draw with four-fours, nigga, put a hole in your jaw
Ayyo, you hear me, son? All that shit you talking is dumb
Stalk him for fun, take his heat away and watch a nigga run
Ayyo, you hear me, son? You feeling that, black? Flowers attack
You play me too close, nigga, and your shell’ll get cracked