The Prophet

Chorus

This that hot shit
That A-T-L hot shit
Dirty south god with the mike I’m ‘bout 2 drop shit
Coming for me
You’ll be watching the verbal glock spit
R-E-A-P-A, you can call me the prophet

Verse 1

Ready aim and I fire
Competition got to retire
Roll up the fat one
We ‘bout to get you high
While ya’ll kicking manure
My shit be more mature
Consecrated as pure
Now I’m back on tour
I be teaching verbal lessons
Got the gat 'fore you be stressing
Hitcha side the head with my beat and leave a deep impression
Sideline N**S giving no support
You like an unwanted child that I’m about to abort
And ya’ll high class queens, trying to pick a brother clean
Get too close to my blade, U be catch a verbal guillotine
Got my homeboy Ned V on the wheel
Might transpose the ivories, convert it to steel
Or maybe gold and platinum, got cheese up in my rap trap
Coming out the Burg, put the silence on the claptrap
Chorus like Horus the hawk
Challengers outlined in chalk
Pack your BS and just walk
Running the yard with my talk

Verse 2

These rhyme wheezy emcees yo they needing them lozenges
If I don’t make the playlist, I’m taking them hostages
DJ sleeping on the old school beat
I wake’em up with verbal slugs, we disturbing the peace
Got 808 like the ninety-eight, prepare for the ride
Beats of Peanut and Da Reapa,you surrounded on all sides
And Murda Mal covering, don’t nobody move
The ReapALife crew, two double O four groove
U stepping up in my face, but you can’t be serious
Twenty years of messing up mikes, that’s rhyme experience
Crawl back to your image and the ass you kissing
'Fore you end up pictured on a milk carton missing
The king got knowledge jewels to change your brainwaves
Spin your ass three-six-o and watch you radiate
Suckers be rhyming no more
Egos be torn to the floor
Thought I done told you before
Reapa be bringing the war.


(C) 2004 Nikitah Imani (DP Da Reapa)