Cassette Trippin'

by Grip Grand

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Solid gold rhyme, God Allah Born Terrorize the beat, that’s the art form Hear it in the street like a car horn Pardon us, all I see is other MCs who ain’t strong enough And had to have me raise the bar for ‘em Y’all warned, this is our court All-sport, style wars Put it in the air like July 4th Rhyme off the head, but your time’s off Forget it, par Grip’s in the mix a lot, bitch, it’s a seminar Sendin’ our message to the opposite team When it comes to rap, click-clack, I’m a machine When it comes to tracks, I am obscene You know every motherfuckin’ rhyme shine like it’s aquamarine You wouldn’t be the first cat to get caught in the beam And start prayin’ that it all was a dream, like Big said Every presi in your pocket got a very big head? Well, I’m so fresh, I don’t gotta carry Big Red Fuck a livin’ large rapper Get the balls, bastard I dis a rhyme fast as I could get the song mastered Disembowel a style like a scalpel I only look forward to the next part of your song at the outro You’re out cold like a sick day Grip say the best rhymes of all is all of the rhymes Grip say Huh? Lemme explain We ‘bout to ride out on these fools like the next train On to the next thang...
Yo, the beat hit ‘em in the gut, call it slapboxin’ I spit broken glass, you can call it trash talkin’ My lyrics bang on the block like a rap auction Do the opposite of front on Grip—back off him I’m higher than the rocket that astronauts blast off in A perfect storm of rap, it doesn’t happen that often Whether hurricane, rain, sleet, snow, I spaz on ‘em Hang a sucker on the wall, spray my fuckin’ tag on him What a drag, he’s so bad that I can only bag on him Heavy flow, lemme drop a fuckin’ bowling bag on ‘em Any MC who step, yo, we prob’ly smash on him Get broke, left the show with a body cast on him Call the coroner, get yourself a body bag from him It’ll save me the trouble These lames need to hustle It’s a struggle in the underground, we may need a shovel When the flow’s like a hammer, They can’t even touch you Got a heaven-sent style, so I may be above you Over your head, like I was floatin’ eight feet above you Bringin’ greatness to my state, If you ain’t see then fuck you I’m an animal, an ape-man, the king of the jungle Rhymin’ on beats, each and every rhyme I release Is so dangerous, rappers need to sign a release I’m on the streets in the form of a man with the mind of a beast I eat a rhymer, crack his spine in my teeth Long live the president, but better yet would be if all of mine were deceased Money ain’t talkin’ like a mime at a speech I got a rhyme book that’s bottomless, deep I told ‘em I was a freak See a psychiatrist same time every week And Rec-League came to play, it’s game time every week Every hour, every minute, every second at least I’m on the clock steady deliverin’ consecutive heat Time for some action, I don’t wait for the director to speak Respect to my team The microphones a wreckin’ machine I tear the roof off while you poppin’ champagne on some Evelyn King Well that’s a shame, you should let a young veteran sing You think you fly? I’ma de-feather your wings I’m not a puppet, I severed the strings They say I’m clever with words I say I’m better at dismemberin’ herbs I’m out for the cheddar and each and every treasure that I ever deserved I’m not a customer, I’ll never be served I’m like a hundred steps ahead of all the suckers so forget ‘em, they scurred Go back to Kansas or wherever they were I told ‘em “Don’t quit your day job” Not sayin’ I work harder than God But, in the Bible, even God took a day off Cutbacks and layoffs They outside the key and couldn’t even get a J off Assassinate ‘em like 8-Off So raise off the turf like a plane when it takes off I ain’t got a hockey mask, I’ll still take your face-off Your rap needs a map, G, the whole shit is way off No pay-off, you lost the qualifier, no play-offs Hey, boss, you tryna beat Grip? Well, your chances gettin’ slim, bitch, like Kate Moss, Fitness, and weight-loss I rip this in half and I dip it in steak sauce Eatin’ up rappers like Pac-Man done ate dots I told ‘em bounce like a bank shot I’m real like house shoes and a tank top You fake like a stage-prop There ain’t a style that I ain’t got locked I’m goin’ viral, I hope you got your inbox blocked ‘Cuz every file I attach Is like an arsonist is lightin’ a match So many hits, they keep rewritin’ my stats My shit is dope, and you can smoke it in a pipe like it’s crack You can shoot it in your vein and say you like every track There’s a computer in my brain that’s from the future and it’s writin’ my rap So drop the motherfuckin’ mic, ‘cuz I’m back
MCs need to get they insurance renewed Me versus you? Psshh, y’all are certain to lose Even if your skill were to improve, I’d still murder your crew So walk soft like a burglar do Hurtin’ a loop In case you ain’t sure, what you heard is the truth Rappers get banned, word to the Roots I’m a veteran Y’all new recruits were still learnin’ to shoot When I was earnin’, yo, turn and salute Unless your furniture's fire-proof, you should re-furnish the booth I burn studios down to the boards They ain’t down to record I spit lead, tell a rapper “You’re dead. You should just lay down on the floor.” Like “Whoop, whoop!” That’s the sound of the law Got a whole lotta buzz like the sound of a saw My album’s not even out in the store The crowd shoutin’ for more Connect like a roundhouse to the jaw 1,2,3--TKO We blow up the PA like a Freeway show You ain't nice on the mic, man Di me lo... It goes 1,2,3--fuck the bullshit! What’s the name of the best to bang? It’s still Grip When I’m rappin’, they call me fresh like Will Smith...
It go like, I hold mics like the Statue of Liberty Holds the torch viewed throughout the New York vicinity Is you kiddin’ me? I half ‘em like fractions To be specific, smash a rapper back into atoms When you broke out, I thought “Good riddance, don’t come back, son” Pardon me, God Allah Born Equality Call me G, R.I.P. like a creepy headstone They never get the message like he in a 3G dead zone Phone a plumber, ‘cuz we always got the pipes out It’s like “He’s a super…” I’ll turn your lights out I had this dream ever since I was a teen To eat the competition on some Idi Amin It goes, highly intelligent battle slang Still hopin’ this rappin’ thang Will come back around like a Batarang I seen you in the stands at the game But I already had the ball, Grip came through raw like Big Daddy Kane In ’88 plus 22, now I got a flow to pull the mic like a rug right out from under you A Rec show is so super-fun You know the crew and them Rhymers who make you wanna go stupid dumb Offend rappers like “Fuck you” Your verse is a no-show, or so-so, we will overdub you And don’t feel the least regret Except for once, when one of my punchlines beat MCs to death Scientific like Reed Richards or Hank Pym He spent all of his time behind bars like the state pen Too many wrong moves and you gon’ lose Amateurs with Pro-Tools We go off like a blown fuse The whole crew burn you like “Zing!" In your face, yo Grip is livin’ larger than a social worker caseload Fresh... If you say so, we just don’t buy it The rec is unbeatable. P.S.—Don’t try it. What’s the secret? If I told you, I’d have to kill you, it’s classified It wouldn’t be the first time that a rapper died The Rec team destroy emcees who thought they was major league Stomp ‘em out like Gore-Tex ACG's And at the end of that, I go back in time And write some more mind-bending rap I told ‘em don’t front, it’s the truth Don’t shoot the messenger Stay tuned for more spine-tingling adventures of…
Whatchu think about losin’? ‘Cuz I don’t think about that shit at all Welcome to Broakland, you should think about movin’ We on strike for a higher wage They make a lot of claims, but I could see through a sucker like a Bible page Ask Ice-T if rhymin’ pays How about Power, Evil E and Darlene with the shottie raised I rep Cali when I spit my vocals Throw your hands in the air like the Lench Mob logo So forget your bifocals, I told you You would need a telescope to see the shit that I’m close to What is it? People tell me that I seem different I’m in outer space, so excuse me if I seem distant Grip been away for a while Now I’m back with new styles So prepare to get served like a caterer I was in LA in ’88 playin’ tapes At the Great Western Forum where the Kings and the Lakers were I take it back to the sound of my youth That the sound of the truth Since Rodney O. & Joe Cooley, everlasting bass has flowed through me I got it on tape like home movies Born in the Bay, but my parents divorced I had to leave, please believe I still carry the torch I learned all about the City of Dope from Too Short California, rappers get smoked like Newports In the W, E-S-T where I be Sittin’ in the park waitin’ for you like Hi-C Wanna battle? I spit ‘til the record is done Call a DJ, quick, Grip is second to none I can’t forget Spice One, E-40, The Click I always say what I think, like a Freudian slip So go ahead, take a photo of Grip Screamin’ “Whose world is this?” Middle finger up, holdin’ my...
You gon’ need more than one job if you gon’ eat around here So I don’t see a lot of y’all eatin’ this year Rappers can’t live no more, they all dyin’ out Stakes so high, yeah, I can’t take a time out Every MC got a strong team beside of ‘em If he get trapped, they grab the mic and go ride for him Last motherfucker stepped got his whole crew crippled But sometimes, when things get hot, I wish I brought two pistols… This is Masterpiece Theater I don’t grab the mic, The way I butcher MCs, it’s like I had a meat cleaver Cleanin’ up the neighborhood like a street sweeper And I make ‘em get busy like a substitute teacher Run up in the studio and bust a new heater If you not a fan of us, we don’t fuck with you neither We got our own thing like Heavy D You should go back home or leave with a half-dome like Yosemite Smashin’ on tracks, that’s my specialty Like, yo, here’s a wheelchair, rappers couldn’t even stand next to me I take it back to C3PO or Ballad of a Menace by CPO It’s on like a TV show Everything was all good just a week ago Now it’s all wack, what the fuck you call that?
I’m your hero, never a zero, more like a thousand I’m not the Jungle Brothers, but tell suckers I will house them I’m underrated with the rhymes and raps I wanna jeweler, I’m shinin’ like The Ruler is Back I talk flows composed With the pencil and pen I told a rapper he was weak, shoulda went to the gym I’m kinda slim But my rhyme style is heavyweight I’m not a child and that’s the reason that I never played I get paid? No, I don’t, I’m afraid To put it short… I want a raise I’m rehearsin’ The vocal and verse n’ I’m on a roll If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here like “I Know You Got Soul” I’m in control Like Marley Marl flyin’ a plane, with one finger up in the air rockin’ a chain My name is Grip and you can tell by the sound of my tune If you the very best rapper on Earth I’m on the Moon I’m on the Sun, number one Number dos, you ain’t close There, there Put your hands in the air like scare quotes For real You know Grip told the kids to applause Hit the road, git ‘em dancin’ like “The Wizard of Oz” I’d be makin’ more dough takin’ minimum wage I don’t rap to be rich, I just Want a raise…
You know we don’t pack heat, we pack the whole venue You wanna grab the mic? Fuck that, I won’t let you I’m so special, the town oughta hold a parade Explode with the pen, like I forgot to throw the grenade This represent a least a pint of blood I poured on the page Yeah, I’m a beast, so they keep my microphone in a cage That’s all I wanted to say Your whole career is like 24 hours You really oughta call it a day You on the sidelines, I’m on the field callin’ the play Winnin’ the game, I’m ‘bout to need a different name Grip Gazillion…naw, fuck it, it isn’t the same It’s Grip Grand, clang-clang, like a prisoner’s chains I got it locked like the rock, told ‘em listen to Kane Listen to G. Rap, G. Rip, Grip is insane Like a lobotomy, I’m pickin’ your brain, simple n’ plain I’m a dragon on the track n’ all I’m spittin’ is flames So click-click, take a picture to remember me with When I only had a couple gigs like a memory stick I was already so incredibly sick I’m like December 26th, ‘cuz I’m broke, and I’ll never be fixed You know I ran up in the jam and then I told ‘em to freeze I put the squeeze on MCs like accordion keys This is the world according to me A recording of me’s more heat than Two 45’s like a quarter to three By the time you hear this record I’ll be onto some next shit Hit the studio, cross this beat off of my checklist Any reasonable offer accepted But you want Grip for free? Sorry, can’t eat karma for breakfast Call me PG&E, every line is electric Something’s wrong with your song and I’m tryna correct it It’s the end of the line But, yo, defeat never enter my mind I only quit at the end of the rhyme
I used to drink, smoke, cuss, stay blazed and shit What am I sayin’? Bitch, I ain’t changed a bit I’m still doin’ all them thangs, I ain’t changed the list I got a jar of roach clips with my greatest hits Now I’m back with a vengeance I tell a rapper say my name Grip Grand Now use that in a sentence Grip Grand’s attack on the track is relentless Peasants! I bet you couldn’t even wrap presents Raise the horns, legends ain’t made, they’re born It’s a jungle out there and I’m agent orange Rock, rock, y’all, Grip get the shit to crack MCs freeze up and forget to rap If you need the mic, better use it quick, I’ma smash it Labels would be smart to get Grip, I’m an asset I just tax it, go ‘til the breakdown Don’t turn the bass down like a drug addict I'm unstoppable, bet you heard that before How come you rap like you never heard rap before? Testify, y’all got a Hindenburg flow--that’ll never fly Plus a CD I would never buy So ease back when you see the kid I eat rap, like, that’s what I need to live The shit I hear nowadays is a fraud I’ll have you know I think the crowd at your show got paid to applaud I got a plan, yo, don’t interfere I told ‘em I don’t make music I make poison that go in your ear I kill a rapper with the flow, so ignore any noises you hear That’s just the sound of your recording career I been knockin’ so loud I just about put my hand through the door What the fuck I’m still standin’ here for? You really need to let Grip in the game The West Coast say the whole album bang like it’s "Quik is the Name" Tell the doctors that I’m off of their charts Dismantled so many mics, I make a new one outta all of their parts I ain’t earnin’ the cash Not even close, time to turn on the flash ‘Cuz, yo, it’s seemin’ Like a shot in the dark Word up, you get caught if your rappin’ is weak I could beat you in a battle without havin’ to speak We could pass any test Which track should I assassinate next? Put a fuckin’ toe tag on the beat...
You ever wish you could fast forward to another scene? I’m startin’ to get a sinking feeling like a submarine Life is a riddle I don’t overstand and every day I only manage Finding out another thing it doesn’t mean Maybe the answer’s somewhere in between They said “Baby, the answer’s something you can only see when you give up the search” I said “That’s fine,” yet I remind them I been shinin’ more than gold But can’t afford the toll to pay my dues, for what it’s worth Maybe the reason is beyond my grasp, they said “Baby, the reason has a way of revealing when you ain’t lookin’ for it” I’m lookin’ forward to the day that I can live I mean, it’s hard enough, I didn’t know I’d have to give a book report I guess I brought it on myself, I chose the rapper life Get rich or die? I think I might have chose the afterlife Back to reality like Back to Life by Soul II Soul I’m ready, yo, just tell me when to go, it’s like a traffic light Light as a rock, I mean the classic Lyte I’m high above a sucker like a satellite and plus I never pass the mic Every time I fell I made a promise to myself it wouldn’t happen twice I ain’t gotta take it like some bad advice And that’s despite the fact I know the odds are weighted But I swore to God that I was gonna make it like a sacrifice ‘Til I’m above the clouds, I make the people yell so fuckin’ loud I couldn’t hear myself above the crowd…
From the start to the end of it, perfected all my penmanship Respected like an ‘87 record with Rakim on it I got my Rec-League membership, got so many benefits Classic like They Reminisce Target practice, I never miss Afterwards you be pressin’ rewind so you could catch the words Step up if you have the nerve I’m heavy like a pachyderm A massacre of rappers tear the stage up like a contractor I take it back to ‘95 when Mad Skillz had the Nod Factor Don’t believe me? Then holler back, where Broakland? [What?] Hear dem? Why you drop the ball like the year end? I told ‘em kiss my rear end in every battle we’re in Yo, Gab Weirdo, my alter-ego, speak on how you feelin’ Broakland in the boondocks, where they paint murals of Tupac In the final scene of Juice when him and Q was on the rooftop It’s too hot, but still we keep kickin’ it like a shoebox My stash spot, where I keep piff in it like a ooh-wop I tell your motherfuckin’ squad to bounce like I was Doo Wop Why you bother competin’, man? You only gonna forfeit Cuz’ people thinkin’ MC is shorthand for Most Conformist Was the reason why they hear your song and only know the chorus Go to war with all these suckers, but it’s dangerous to battle Tryna box me on the mic? You would be safer with your shadow Stop actin’ like you stuck on stupid, make some fuckin’ music And maybe you could be on the cover of The Source, There’s nothin’ to it! Third grade teacher heard me speak like “I knew he would get it crackin” Neighbors said he had a talent but who would’ve thought it was rappin’? From end to end I burn you like graffiti or a CD Gab Weezy! So use some Common Sense and take it easy
I been transformin’ sounds into something much higher But I can’t put ‘em out like it was a brushfire There ain’t no release date I’m waitin’ for that leaked pre-release tape to open doors like a bus driver Cuz Grip oughta be number one, two, or three On your list of young spitters whose flow could crush rhymers I got motivation, that run up in the booth and do Ten songs a day, that Tupac motivation I gotta make another stop, phone the station… What made you think you could fool with what only God can judge? Grip is advanced with his music, it’s only obvious After you watch me bust enough of these words to fill up a Whole encyclopedia, almanac, or an omnibus Which is to say I’m prolific and spit a lot of stuff This is the way I transmit it, your shit is out of touch And it’s a damn shame We treat our pain like it was champagne And try to keep both of ‘em bottled up I’m Led Zep with the flow, get a whole lotta love I even bring it to your face on occasion So when I’m in the place, a rapper stays on vacation I seen a few vacatin’ the stage on the way in, Straight jet when the Rec came in, I cain’t blame ‘em Yeah, we super-scientifical Technicians of sound like Dre and Bobby D-Digital I used to give ‘em a rap, now I don’t git with the track Until they write the check up, I need a physical My rap is deep like it’s part of a secret ritual Why you pursue me? I’m miles beyond your arm lengths They tried to throw me out, I was already on base I make a strong case I’m years ahead of my time, That’s why my watch-face has always got the wrong dates The right place, right moment, that’s what I call fate From San Francisco to Broakland, my team is All-Bay Removin’ rappers is my job, I had a long day I’m tired of rhymin’ like, fuck it, just let the song play They call me Grip Grand Inquisitor Fuck that, they call me Grip Grand the Wizard or Grip Grand the Visitor Grip Grand a vision for the future with charisma Whose superhuman moves are more confusin’ than the Riddler I shine a signal in the sky like the Commissioner My styles are all over your head like your conditioner I wrote a lyric in a language no one understands Somehow I held it together like rope and rubberbands I changed my name to Grip “I need a couple hundred” Grand Off of just one advance, who said that talk is cheap? So what if every rapper already git on this beat? I built a time machine so I could travel back to when they made it And then say that I had already spit on this beat And when the song’s complete they put it on the street like parking meters So that all of y’all can see that I been on a streak I won a lot of games I’m like a phoenix comin’ out the flames And then I leave ‘em screamin’ out my name…


Explicit Lyrics


released October 25, 2010


Some rights reserved. Please refer to individual track pages for license info.


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