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Laying Blame Lyrics

Artist: Hilltop Hoods

Verse One â‚¬" Suffa
I gave birth to half these styles, you should pay me rhyme support,
Like Billy Jean suing Michael Jackson for child support,
Rhyme is thought, what is it? Lethal, Damn youâ‚¬â„¢ll get hurt,
Cos I XL like the tag on my shirt,
Iâ‚¬â„¢ll have these rappers easing back, rhyme with a swagger,
Feed your girl aphrodisiacs and hide your viagra,
If pain was diabetes, rhyme would be my insulin,
Iâ‚¬â„¢m taking out the insolent in an instant when
They bring the rhyme; Iâ‚¬â„¢ll battle if you wanna tussle,
A single line can turn that fatty matter into muscle,
You stagnate, while my rhymes circulate like rumours,
Your living proof that god has a sense of humour,
Iâ‚¬â„¢m butter made from the cream that came from the crop,
Iâ‚¬â„¢ll move the mountain to Mohammed scream my name from the top,
And proclaim what I got, boy, so give me headroom,
These clubs are full of more toys than spoilt kids bedrooms,
When Iâ‚¬â„¢m on stage I might lose my breath,
Cos I got so much heart that thereâ‚¬â„¢s no room in my chest,
Left for lungs, yes the bests yet
To come, my rhymes like a hand around your neck,
Constricting your breathing like snakebites and beestings,
Iâ‚¬â„¢m all up in these arseholes faces like G-Strings,
I searched the world for opposition but I fear the
Only competition I found was in a mirror.

Verse Two â‚¬" Pressure
When Pressure steps to the batters plate you salivate, known to captivate,
I have to break new barriers like when a chaste nun masturbates,
If one more critic asks me what I do, Iâ‚¬â„¢ll slap them mate,
And tell them Iâ‚¬â„¢m a rapper as I strap her up in gaffer tape,
Loudmouths make me wanna flip,
MCs only dream they got a grip, and wake up with their hand on their dick,
Honest, if they ride the nuts I tell the get off me,
Cos Iâ‚¬â„¢m unstable like a cradle bridge, so donâ‚¬â„¢t cross me,
Iâ‚¬â„¢m highly explosive; youâ‚¬â„¢re a child playing with matches,
I break rappers you give hairline fractures,
These actors keep it real? Youâ‚¬â„¢re really wak itâ‚¬â„¢s fact,
You spit one-liners while I spit the finest chapters,
Perhaps itâ‚¬â„¢s time to retire the mic,
Like the Bulls should have done son, cos no-one wants to be like,
That anymore, cos nowadays youâ‚¬â„¢re taken on a fantasy tour,
Of coke, guns and gold when theyâ‚¬â„¢re actually poor,
Factually flawed, yet entertaining,
I guess it how far weâ‚¬â„¢re willing to go to satisfy a craving,
Make them swallow their tongues like epileptics,
Then Iâ‚¬â„¢ll respect it, I come clean as if my lube was antiseptic,
So blow me, you still couldnâ‚¬â„¢t rhyme fresh,
Iâ‚¬â„¢m on a higher level of divineness, so call me your highness,
Thereâ‚¬â„¢s only three things that are certain in life,
Death, taxes and Hilltop Hood working the mic.

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