Treat of the Day
by Ghettosocks
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Digital Album
Immediate download of 16-track album in your choice of 320k mp3, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire. Full album download includes digital booklet and iPhone formatted versions of the "Don't Turn Around" and "Out For Treats" videos!Buy Now $8 CAD or more
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Compact Disc
Purchase an actual CD from Ghettosocks, shipped to your door, anywhere in the world, direct from Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.
Also includes immediate download of 16 track album in your choice of 320k mp3, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire, complete with digital booklet and iPhone formatted versions of the "Don't Turn Around" and "Out For Treats" videos!Buy Now $10 CAD or more
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Rappin' For Fun
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Onlyindamornin'
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Recreation
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Out For Treats
02:45
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Role Models
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Guillotine
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Take Chains Off
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The Roof
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about
*** Stolen Kicks f. PH - Nominated for 2012 ECMA Bell Aliant Fan's Choice Video award
*** TREAT OF THE DAY - Nominated for 2011 JUNO Rap Recording of the Year award
*** Don't Turn Around - WINNER of the 2011 ECMA Rap Single of the Year award!
*** Out For Treats - Nominated for 2011 ECMA Rap Single of the Year award.
*** TREAT OF THE DAY - Nominated for 2010 MNS Nova Scotia Music Week Hip Hop Recording of the Year award
Ghettosocks’ Treat of the Day is a fresh 16-pack of brand-new, high-cholesterol songs. Featuring guest appearances from El da Sensei, Pumpkinhead, Edgar Allen Floe, Cesar Comanche, D-Sisive, Muneshine, Apt, and Timbuktu.
*** TREAT OF THE DAY - Nominated for 2011 JUNO Rap Recording of the Year award
*** Don't Turn Around - WINNER of the 2011 ECMA Rap Single of the Year award!
*** Out For Treats - Nominated for 2011 ECMA Rap Single of the Year award.
*** TREAT OF THE DAY - Nominated for 2010 MNS Nova Scotia Music Week Hip Hop Recording of the Year award
Ghettosocks’ Treat of the Day is a fresh 16-pack of brand-new, high-cholesterol songs. Featuring guest appearances from El da Sensei, Pumpkinhead, Edgar Allen Floe, Cesar Comanche, D-Sisive, Muneshine, Apt, and Timbuktu.
credits
released 10 October 2009
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*TREAT OF THE DAY
Written and performed by Ghettosocks except where noted
Arranged by Ghettosocks and Fresh Kils at The Kilzone
Tracks 04, 06, 07, 08, 09, 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16 recorded at The Vault Studios in Halifax
Tracks 01, 02, 03, 05, 10, and 11 recorded at The Kilzone in Toronto
Additional production on track 04 by Ghettosocks
Additional production on track 15 by Dexter Doolittle
All Tracks recorded by Fresh Kils, except tracks 08, 09, 14, and 16 recorded by Beatmason
Mixed by Fresh Kils at The Kilzone
Mastered by Tom Rogers at Atomix Media
©℗2009 Ghettosocks, Droppin Science Productions
photography by Kelly Clark, typicalgirl.com
design by evul and Ghettosocks
Treat-O-Tron designed and constructed by Ghettosocks, Evul, Jenocide, and Typical Girl
MORE INFO
ghettosocks.com
droppinscienceproductions.com
///
*TREAT OF THE DAY
Written and performed by Ghettosocks except where noted
Arranged by Ghettosocks and Fresh Kils at The Kilzone
Tracks 04, 06, 07, 08, 09, 12, 13, 14, 15, and 16 recorded at The Vault Studios in Halifax
Tracks 01, 02, 03, 05, 10, and 11 recorded at The Kilzone in Toronto
Additional production on track 04 by Ghettosocks
Additional production on track 15 by Dexter Doolittle
All Tracks recorded by Fresh Kils, except tracks 08, 09, 14, and 16 recorded by Beatmason
Mixed by Fresh Kils at The Kilzone
Mastered by Tom Rogers at Atomix Media
©℗2009 Ghettosocks, Droppin Science Productions
photography by Kelly Clark, typicalgirl.com
design by evul and Ghettosocks
Treat-O-Tron designed and constructed by Ghettosocks, Evul, Jenocide, and Typical Girl
MORE INFO
ghettosocks.com
droppinscienceproductions.com
tags
license
all rights reserved
feeds
feeds for about
Noted as one of the top rappers in Canada (The CBC’s Top 25 Greatest Canadian Rappers Ever), Ghettosocks is a JUNO Award nominated Hip Hop Producer and MC born in Ottawa and living in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.
shows
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Jun 30Saskatoon, SK
discography
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Nov 2012 -
Apr 2012 -
Oct 2009 -
Dec 2009 -
Aug 2008 -
Nov 2006
contact / help
For help with downloads, click here.
For all other inquiries, including help with merch, click here.
Redeem download codes here.
- Track Name: Rappin' For Fun
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I've been known to switch jackets and flip chickens just to switch status, leaving shit at your chick's address. Socks is the baddest - had beef all over the map (here comes the pun, son) call me McAtlas.Peep me with the zoom lens - I'm here to tie up some loose ends, while you lose friends like a snake lose skins. Play Rocky while your stupid troop grins with a flying squirrel alley-oop to your moose chin. Naw - this ain't a movement, I stay elusive cruising with a few cliques who speak a few lips fluent - got a tongue like a gat and ain't afraid to use it, you talking 'bout show and prove that? Watch me do this. Leo and Cancer - you flyer son? I'm Iverson. In other words my free throw's the answer. Wanna cross-fade? Don't get it backwards like hamster. I ran through your camp with the speed of a panther. Bottom line: you are not ready yet, not semi-fit, I got it locked while you brought medi-kits. Plus your broad's been rockin' my jock steady kid, and got passed around in my circle like pot etiquette. Pfft - well, well, why don't you look at this here? Dude's shook in his gear - cold crooked with fear. You're gonna hear a lot of 'coulda shouldas' this year when I pull a heist and bounce like the Sugar Crisp Bear, yeah.
Too dope. Still lappin' the sun. Still rappin' for fun, these actors are done. Outta quit yappin' and flappin' they gums or hear the <gasp> sound of me collapsin' his lungs. - Track Name: Onlyindamornin'
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I'll show you what this man is about, watch me damage your house. I won't trample or shout - I'll just trash it and bounce. Flip your shorty so quick - switched her pants with her blouse. If your head's in the room put your hands in the clouds. Got a lot of props - we handin' them out, while some panicking mannequins stand in the route. Hit the hood in Atlanta with your cameras out? That'll get you Lynnard Skynnard - you know - band from the south. We landed on Mount Rushmore and bust four presidents plus four fans in the mouth. Socks keeps planning it out - expanding it out - putting up streams like some salmon or trout. Forget Planet Rock, you're on a planet of doubt, so abandon the man in the mirror's vanity now. It's calamity how I'll be slammin' the sound. Play me in your living room and catch a tan on the couch.
I drop with the impact of two asteroids that'll turn a pair of goons into two fan-boys. The man deploys - toucans enjoy - while your loops sound fruity and too 'flamboy'. I do avoid - because I'm too annoyed like Gary Busey accused of shrooms and 'roids. I never subscribed to Tom Cruise tabloids (Katey never gave birth they bought a cute android). Megatron's back - omega beams blast. Nobody wants to play me like a Sega Dreamcast. Bring a mega long gat 'cause my head'll reach past east and west beef and get an Pebble Beach hat. Yo Dex - put me up where the levels peak at and the small-tittied singers acapella b-flat. Bet ya sweet ass when this fella speak fat, I'm a tell 'em shit is real like a Tel Aviv map.
The task is great to fascinate the massive state of passive fakes who pass the plate but lack the taste pasta, steak and After Eights - they have to wait or keep up and match the pace. Tabulate the average rate that cats get played in rap today like racking paint get stashed away and fast to blame the past on fate - either that or dad's mistakes so act your age. Try and digest - no hurry if the shit gave y'all headaches like McFlurries. I'm hot off the top - old Russian hat's stilly furry - recognize - like Ghost-bustin' ass Bill Murray: I've earned my stripes from burning mics while others were concerned with ice - I learned to write. O.C. told 'em 'Time's Up' - word to life, and as the day turns to night I'm perma-hype. - Track Name: Recreation
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It’s that kid that loves animals spittin’ those flammables, driving moms crazy like fine young cannibals. Don’t get upset ‘cause my flow’s so natural. You mad ‘cause I’m stylin’ on you all casual. These other cats are kinda jealous (must be those raps). They so humbling and bust egos fast. Is it ‘cause I got by and didn’t need no gat? Or ‘cause I roll with nine dimes like Tuxedo Mask. Either way, who’s hurtin’ kids? Who’s earning chips with a verbal gift and who’s working shifts? Who cruises on crews leaving blue-purple lips and disperses verses so superfluous? (Get ‘em Socks.) No doubt, you know we got skills, while these midgets ain’t equipped to rep the Lollipop Guild. Nah - I’ma save that for the flight ‘cause after tonight a lot of cats won’t know how to act with a mic - word.
I call this recreation. They call it desecration. Put your sweat into your rep, guess you could say I wreck creations. Without a hesitation known for blessing stages. Don’t test your fate: a blender ain’t the place you wanna rest your face in.
We’re back in effect. Another patch on the vet. Cashier cross-eyed when she cashed in the cheque. Gimme that paper ‘cause I’m past the respect (spend the kind of cash on pasta you have to for rent). Cliques rollin’ deep, we bound to get live. The Undercrown hoodie with the red and brown highs. Twenty bucks cover? Shit, I’m down to get mine. We’re dumbin’ out, thumbin’ out counterfit fives. On the dancefloor doing tai chi, sipping chai tea, chicks in knee-highs with my man Highny. Creep in a bears coat stares chinese, chinese chick stares back like ‘why me?’ Pair of eyebrows like Ming the Merciless. Josh in the whip like rings to circuses. Apt in the crates with breaks to murder kids. Bix on the beat like heat to furnaces.
I call this recreation. They call it desecration. Put your sweat into your rep, guess you could say I wreck creations. Without a hesitation known for blessing stages. Don’t test your fate: a blender ain’t the place you wanna rest your face in.
Socks rocks the populous at prosperous pace, while getting props like an octopus in octaves of eight. Not even talking to the god unless the topic is great, or get George Strombouloupolous knocked in the face homie. Strings swing like some pendulum bling: slung around somebody’s neck for the attention it brings. From potential to kinetic, guess I’m made to be king: I sway the groupies, Dave Suzuki, check the nature of things. Unbelievable rap steeze, it’s unseizable. You can’t grasp or fathom the wrath that’s unreachable. In the past assassins attacked the unbreachable, but gasped when they gulped the wrong glass: inconceivable. Kids are fit to fail let alone get the grail. Cruise around for nothin’, cousin? Stick to sippin’ ginger ale. I breeze like winter gale, leave these rappers sick and frail, ripped the Richter Scale and I was only clippin’ fingernails.
I call this recreation. They call it desecration. Put your sweat into your rep, guess you could say I wreck creations. Without a hesitation known for blessing stages. Don’t test your fate: a blender ain’t the place you wanna rest your face in. - Track Name: Dreams of Hawaiian Sophie
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I had a dream like Martin Luther that started super: watching the clouds cruise and stars manoeuver. All the waitresses abandonned their jobs at Hooters and suddenly appeared on the beach rocking bras in Cuba. Scrubbing each other's arms with lufa, there was Carmen, Uma, and at one point thought I saw Medusa; but I wasn't lubing no boobs for kama sutra - I was charming their crew singing songs of Judah. King Solomon brought keys to unlock Bermuda. Slick Rick remembered his compass but forgot the ruler. Beauties blew smoke rings as they sparked the buddah, letters drifting up to the sky spelling 'Socks the future'. 'Ahhs' and 'ohhs' got used up 'spite the screaming. Lots of clues ensued from the rhyme and reason, and as I realized the meaning of life's true teaching KRS told me bluntly that I was dreaming.
Here's a butter rap fatter than an alley gutter rat covered in whipped cream curled up on Sally Struthers' lap. I hopped in the Pacific for a hot minute - ate a peach while watching a tornado spin and got caught in it. I battled a great white shark in the twisted sky. It took reflexes, wits, plus fists and rhymes. Kicked it live with a marvelous display of skills and used Marvin Gaye breaks to carve and fillet his gills. Storms subsided on the warmest island. Porpoises performed synchonized before my eyelids. Villagers hit the beach reaching and applauding. Got laid so much I was sneezing from the pollen. Catamarans brought batter and jam to make pancakes and fill plates of the chattering man. Drank Tahiti Treat out a meaty leaf 'til my pee pee leaked while petite jeeps filled with pygmies from Fiji freaked. At this point, I was feeling the climate, eating a lime well-defined like a fine tit. Unsealing the wine with a seal in behind of a dime with a body like the mind of a scientist. I checked her out like she was seeing the doctor, unlocked the wok and started feeding me lobster. She whispered to me sweetly like pina colada 'you ain't dreaming baby, keep keepin' it proper.'
I saw your little sister last week. She said she missed me and she started having bad dreams. So how's your brother and your moms doing? I guess you heard about the news and how I'm not moving. It's been a minute. I've been thinking about stuff that ain't good for my head, like looking for your socks at the foot of my bed, and all the things that come before that (you know like how we used to stand outside for forty-five on the door mat?) Man I caught a lot of colds that way. Lost a lot of sleep and a lot of peeps trying to hold that weight, now - I spend time trying to ghost them days, but no matter how I try they don't go away - nah. It's like our zodiak signs were never designed to intertwine (be a lie for me to say I was fine). We ain't friends anymore, we ain't friendly, we ain't even enemies, and now we ain't anything. You're like a neutron, you're too strong, the groove's gone. I guess it's true girls cut their hair when they move on. I saw your next dude - on some 'ex-to-next' and I gotta put it out there: I'm not impressed. Days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months, funny how things always happen at once...word up - I gotta catch this bus. - Track Name: Stolen Kicks featuring PH
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It's the kid with the Megatron-grill about to blast. Socks without the frames like Optimus Prime without the mask - just don't look right - and you're a bad accident out the passanger side window, so don't look right. Alpha Flight stencils all outside of your workplace so you're always thinking 'bout us when you're out on your smoke break. 'New-movement rappers'- we kill 'em in piles. We're simply better than your homeboys, you're still in denial - face it. I'm obligated to leave the stage obliterated spittin' this verbatim a way to get you broad titilated. Pick up a Bic and scribble riddles so the critics praise it. Flick a fader to rip a crater where your fitted had laid at. Get real - shorty said I got sex appeal? Well 'bah-chicka-wah-wah' I bet the betty's sweats'll peel. Moral of the story: I don't have to flex the steel, but still put heat to chests so you learn how a pearl necklace feels.
(Get 'em Socks) No doubt, you know we got skills while these midgets ain't equipped to rep the Lollipop Guild. Yo Bix, they're over wih. I keep it moving like stolen kicks, strolling through the frozen snowin' Canada's cold as a bitch.
PH aka Facepuncher P, fresher than red-snapper straight out the fuckin' sea. Crispy as a Benji out Diddy's pocket, when I'm on stage ain't no question. 'Did he rock it?' Ghettosocks is the mellow profit. Me - I'm more of a Hell Boy: one punch knock the eye out your socket. New Jordan Fusions on (the Tribe Edition) I got the flyest women in my division in designer linen, flyness is my addiction, and if you test me - word to Gretzky, I'll high-stick 'em. Mess up their eye's vision 'til they cry limpin', then I strip 'em of their fly kicks and drag them through the snow 'cause they lacking with the dough. How'd they manage to get dough was by acting like a hoe. PH: one fifth of Bullet Tooth Tony. These new kicks? They bullet-proof homie.
(Get 'em Socks) No doubt, you know we got skills while these midgets ain't equipped to rep the Lollipop Guild. Yo Bix, they're over wih. I keep it moving like stolen kicks, strolling through the frozen snowin' Canada's cold as a bitch.
It's night time, and while you babysitters write rhymes, we hit the streets like Batman out to fight crime. Peace to bombing addicts - watch me palm the planet, got your girl spittin' seeds like was gnawing on a pomagranite. In the club cameras swivel for the best angle, catch vandals grip black mops like a tech handle. Ghostbustin'- Marsha's mellow man'll get mangled - so lean back like parallelagrams to rectangles. Beatbox? that's the same thing as mouth-farting. I'd rather eat box with my tongue south darting. Don't play kid, 'cause I'll show up at your house party sipping orange pekoe tea-dot without Kardi. And I don't need any weapons to wet your clique 'cause I can reach into your chest just like a bag of ketchup chips. If your homie's passed out, then I'll tag your man, wake up grill covered with an Alpha Flight ambigram.
(Get 'em Socks) No doubt, you know we got skills while these midgets ain't equipped to rep the Lollipop Guild. Yo Bix, they're over wih. I keep it moving like stolen kicks, strolling through the frozen snowin' Canada's cold as a bitch. - Track Name: Out For Treats
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Watch Count Sockula descend from the thrown and wriggle in delight when I send you this poem. I’m out for treats bitch, tell your cat to keep six, save my paper so I stack flavor like ‘I need this’. Each step I take brings me closer to the goodies. Peanutbutter oatmeal’s a pirate’s cookie - yum. Eat ‘em up quick, haters eat a dick, sugar-free gum, need a green thumb plus swedish fish. Boo please, I’m begging for poutine hot chicken wings with the ranch, no blue cheese. Whose steeze melts a track oh so gooey? Socks and Jorun - now gimme your Jos Louis. Look, I’m not jokin’ around, yellow, orange, and brown Reese’s Pieces all over the ground. Mama always said junk’ll rot out your teeth, but I don’t care though, ‘cause I’m out for treats.
Me and my peeps got hot eats in the grotto, fresh meat in the taco, extra cheese in the nacho. Crisp tee reading ‘got beef?’ as the motto lounged on the couch peeling tangerines from Morocco. Chocolate milk in bags? I’m slashin’ up the spout. While your family is out, I’ll read the pantry of your house. Been known to make a jam sammy for your spouse: she got candy in her mouth rocking panties and a blouse. Used to call her ‘Icey’ (fly as snow breezin’) and always bought her treats ‘cause she cried for no reason. Found out she was secretly high through four seasons and partied every night but would lie alone weekends, like girl, why you so complicated? Then I turned back to my Pizza Pop and ate it. She started trying to tell me something ’bout her needs. I threw my hoodie on and said I’m out for treats. - Track Name: Ricochet featuring El da Sensei
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It’s Ghettosocks so don’t ask me for a frame of reference. Stay pretentious - when you exited I made an entrance. Take suggestions and don’t say it’s sexist when I pull a Pharoah Monch and ask your moms to display her breasts. I make it fit like I’m playing Tetris so don’t get vexed when I come after your ex like the ‘A’ in TEXAS. Blaze the set quick. You’re nodding ‘til you break your necklace, but don’t bite my text unless you like to taste asbestos. These cats bounce like a ricochet. So weak their ribs’ll break from one taste of Minute-Maid. I think I’m back in the seventh grade, feeling like Billy Madison whipping dodge-balls at a kiddie’s face. Stayin’ elegant so hatin’s irrelevant. Even at home-base these cats are way outta their element. Big mistake letting Socks rock with El da Sen ‘cause now we got to send you off to the place where Elvis went.
I latch on unleash with the speech off and on beat honorary heat-mash n_gg_z to the concrete. Monstrous but conscious - of my environment. Solid with the product that keep haters in silence. Mileage peaked and tweaked - my skilled conditioning tread like Michelin to get good positioning. Point guard pivoting - rhymes riveting to get it in. Wild and outlandish like barred citizens. Lyrical fit-ins shit on competition - spit on opposition, clear I’m not forgetting nor forgotten. Motherf***er known to be a problem. Ill lines I got ‘em, new cats I spot ‘em. Found at the bottom - dug from expeditions, studied and analyzed and defined long-missing. Special edition exclusively duty-free, Ghettosocks included me addressed so fluidly.
Solve the case in in the first forty-eight, target in place encouraged as an artist to break. Pen rhymes with the patience like I roll dimes, hold minds like rubber grips when they takin your shine. Without blazing a nine - we get cash and that’s the mission, so if you ain’t down - be ghost like an apparition. Mathematicians try to calculate the facts we kickin’ and get slapped on the wrist because they didn’t ask permission. Menacing rhyme a tenant in time written my space. Held down for ten years plus, singles filling your crates. First-place ribbon for best line in show. Koor points is the perp cause they recognize the flow. Like yellow lines in the snow - we bring heat to the public overseas people love it - still we eat on a budget like you got chicken? gimme a piece of the nugget that’s all I need, just pass me a beat - I’m a crush it. - Track Name: Role Models
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I’ve been blessed with this marvelous day, sun shining on the children all smiling as they’re starting to play. The doggy’s tied in the yard, still barks at the skates. The whole fam’s reunited and my heart - it just breaks. Cliques intermingle clans like a family. Writers on the bench swap tags by the gallery. Street tapestries: an outlawed masterpiece. Kids playing ball don’t give a fuck about gravity. Nah, they stay up and stay high, some struggle and stay stuck, and some buck to stay fly. There’s more hands up in the club than up in the classroom, handing off drugs then they head to the bathroom. Single mother of three (pain is kept under wraps,) bread, mayo, tuna (fiver should cover that.) Standing in the check-out line to an Usher track, daughter loves BET but TV don’t love her back.
Eventhough Daddy ain’t around no more, they found strength in eachother and are bound to grow. ‘Cause some role models will drink the whole bottle. That cat you look up to might be shook-up too. Sometimes two wrongs can equal one right, and some trees fall so the seeds can see light.
I’ve been blessed with this marvelous night. Star shining on horizons all smiling as they start to ignite. The doggy sleeps in the yard in the dark with the bikes. The whole fam’s rolling deep through the park getting nice. Now Julie had Bobby, and Bobby had Julie. Julie had school, and Bobby had an uzi. So this dude with a toolie and a beauty dipped in jewelery were spooning on a tuesday while listening to the Fugees.
Shit was Cooley High speaking smoothly with ruby smiles. At two to nine the two decide to slide to movie night. They hopped into the ride, Daddy said it’s cool to drive, ‘just remember Julie,’ ‘yea, Dad,’ ‘you’ve got school at nine.’ They hit the cinema, wondered if they’d get in. Bobby got confronted with some beef and flashed his weapon. People screamin’, Julie pleading, Bobby kept steppin’. She said ‘yo - I’m done with this,’ turned around and left him,
And eventhough Mommy ain’t around no more, she found strength in herself and is bound to grow. ‘Cause some role models will drink the whole bottle. That cat you look up to might be shook-up too. Sometimes two wrongs can equal one right, and some trees fall so the seeds can see light. - Track Name: Not Impressed featuring Cesar Comanche
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There’s more to the metaphorian than just a four AM call from your broad to make her torso accordion, and according to your shorty friend, I been making audiences raise up like doors on Deloreans. Where we’re going we don’t need no roads, so tell your B to leave her jeans - she don’t need no clothes. She can feel the breeze free between her knees and toes as I pat her Daddy’s back when we meet her folks. I beat a T-rex and rocked a few asian amulets, caught a little fame in the game and changed the stats a bit. You lost a few chasing after it: kids kill themselves for the love like Montagues dating Capulets. So put the tabulets back on the shelf and relax, ‘cause suicide can be bad for your health. What, me angry? I’m not trying to be mad at an elf. You think you’re nuts? Then try tea-bagging yourself.
I’m not impressed.
You’re not the best.
A bunch of downloads, sending me share codes, career trapped in a blog, nobody really knows that you’re lost in a fog or how your song goes. What’s wrong with this picture where are your live shows? So you’re the best outta - ‘cause you’re the best shouter. It’s been the best you can do, you got the best router. Illest amounts of RAM, processor high-power, laser mouse wireless paired with the fly tower. So this is rap now? It’s just a bunch of crap most of you cats you need to crack down. Now check the facts how - became the straw that really broke the back, just realize you’re pushin’ wack sounds. Exact-ly. I can tell you’re happy with all your history downloads, but ain’t got jack on the barcodes. It’s all free - none of it gets sold, it’s so wack. You ain’t yet - started with dues owed.
Old-school new-school need to learn though. I don’t care who you battled when you had a permed fro. I’m not concerned, watch you burn, rock it turbo, and run laps around the world before you say the word ‘go’. Not new to it, I’m true to it - been doin’ it kid. Drop jewels on your boo so you ruin your crib. Dude - I’m not dissin’- she’s an intuitive chick, so listen when she says you’re reading into it a bit. Let’s get it going, these cronies ain’t steppin’ on me. Their homies are My Little Ponies holding the pepperoni. If only their persona weren’t so lonely and ‘methadoney’, their poems wouldn’t be as phoney as Lil’ Kim’s testamoney. Keep it down - quit boasting like you’re hot, ‘cause I’ve been blowing up spots since you were old enough to watch. While I’m signing autographs, posted on your block - you’re inside with your boys, posting on you blog and...
I’m not impressed.
You’re not the best. - Track Name: Pink Lemonade featuring Apt
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I don’t just shine, I eminate bright beams over girls you pretend to date. I need an ice-cold chick, not just any babe, but if life throws you lemons make lemonade. ‘Ghettosocks is the illest’ tagged in the girls’ bathroom by your main-squeeze after I killed it.
Yo homie, pay attention ‘cause I got something clever to say (on point like every letter was ‘A’) when I’m on stage kids reconsider their fate, and make changes on the spot to be better and great. Count Sockula Esquire got grand imperial boom in your mouth like a cereal spoon. Yea I used to know serious goons who would get coked-up and go nuts like Dennis Leary would do. As a youngin’ I would make missions over to Hull where I saw a guy double-bottled over his skull. Split cheap pitchers, kept pounding ‘em out spending all the spare change that we found in the couch. Word - I’d play the wall and straight spy on chicks (that weird rap dude on some ‘science shit’) ‘just drink ‘em pretty’ was the line I’d get from the older cats - back then I was sick.
I don’t just shine, I eminate bright beams over girls you pretend to date. I need an ice-cold chick, not just any babe, but if life throws you lemons make lemonade. ‘Ghettosocks is the illest’ tagged in the girls’ bathroom by your main-squeeze after I killed it.
I work magic in my purple glasses, rockin’ ‘em lens-free since I first hit classes. If I drop a hot verse, your sister’s purse is ashes when I flip that 16 for the Turbo Graphics. Got the G5 MacBook Pro with new speakers, upped the limit on the Mastercard and new Visa, got the keys to your baby mama’s two-seater, plus a fine-arts degree up the sleeve, but who needs it? When your game’s this tight they pay for the flights, edimame, the nigiri, every grain of the rice. What you’re paying for that gear ain’t the same as the price as what I get it for laying waste to the mic. As day turns to night I’m getting tight with your ex. My name’s in the lights ‘cause I’m nice with the text, eventhough they spelled it wrong (like with an ‘X’,) I’m laughing ‘cause they spelled that shit right on the cheque, ha.
I don’t just shine, I eminate bright beams over girls you pretend to date. I need an ice-cold chick, not just any babe, but if life throws you lemons make lemonade. ‘Ghettosocks is the illest’ tagged in the girls’ bathroom by your main-squeeze after I killed it.
On the neigbourhood corner is a kid to kick a funky rhyme, with any type of backing track today it’s not country time. The world is mine just like I own the map, tour de force, four sides, microphone, phonograph. Write a poem, show the rap, light is shone upon the back of an omen it’s over half and is known as a glass - open that...and then turn your cans down, stupid it’s not def and you can’t hear a damn sound. My man’ll lounge and watch your finished hook begin to fail while I chill and cut some records like Guiness Book finger nails. It isn’t stale or a Minute Maid when I spin the plate, and sit and wait while you disintegrate in the shade of pink - or more likely yellow, that cool refreshing drink from an unsightly fellow with greased elbows - concentrate I hold the seconds. Amateurs get chained by their own hung gold records and
I don’t just shine, I eminate bright beams over girls you pretend to date. I need an ice-cold chick, not just any babe, but if life throws you lemons make lemonade. ‘Alpha Flight is the illest’ tagged in the girls’ bathroom by your main-squeeze after I killed it. - Track Name: U Ain’t This featuring D-Sisive, Rich Kidd, & Muneshine
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One, two, three...fourth letter hyphen, so betty-white - cocaine, I’m already high - propane, flame-broil any mic - no paint, I’m no Pennywise. No clownin’ foes go beddy-bye, don’t sleep, peep those eyes open wider than Eugene Levy eye-brows raised (I’m pretty nice.) Fuck that, I’m 1950’s polite, minus the sissy rhyming a sixteen. Eddie Haskall flow: smile in your face then bash in your skull. Case and caskett closed. Manson with a dash of Jones. Let’s make this shindig jump - I’ll bring the Kool-Aid, you bring the cups.
I gotta roll my sleeves up for this one: twenty-six ton beat, crushin’ dimwits under thick drums. Wonder where these kids are from? Blood drips on the map, splatters Halifax, T-Dot, listen. Missioned over to Europe and into the States just to wake these fucks up like a kick in the face. No, it’s not like a dip in the lake, Kils’ beats swell the MP until it won’t fit in the case - wait. Under the shrink-wrap, logos are embedded. You might as well cue the outro with the end credits. Steal my dumb lines? I’ll steal your sunshine - forget it. Your career’s over like Len’s, get it? Staying fuelled off of the booze and poutine, tongue out dunking jewels on the fools like two three, and we’re the reason your boo’s needin some new jeans when she popped the bubble and truffle-shuffled like Goonies, ooh-wee.
Me and you don’t match dog, so hold that side - you’re like a sad gay dude, you ain’t got no pride. You’re led astray, you ain’t got no eyes, your Stevie Wonder hairline gets pushed like that, so pick a number: I could fade you like the barber outlined your features - I’m ill - bless you with the Fresh Kils ceasar and leave ya. Nowadays these skeeze will deceive ya, that’s why they get a preview of the penis like a teaser. Ease up - I’m just spitting what I know: cursive conscript while you scribble with the flow. Follow my lead doggy, I can shit-talk an essay. You can do it the best way or do it the next way. Whatever you choose my set is deadly heavy ready to move, n_gg_z out of the groove - you chevy. I need a medi, medicinal for medication. Made the grade blazed call it ‘higher education’.
You are now rockin’ with the best, ‘who me?’ Mune’s like a jealous one’s envy, Pesci sippin’ Nestea. Better rap, rock better beats, yes we take you to a better place - no not Tennessee. Speech is mean, nice when I write dirty on the mic, image stays squeeky-clean. Scene - fin to stay reachin’ the kid’ll stay recent, dance in your sleep - that’ll lead to dreams. Girls you can bet I rock, even when I stop at red lights in a red I-Roc. Sex symbol: ex said I’m not - wack, fuck that, cool as a fan yet yes I’m hot. Me and Socks know the lay of the land, only difference I’m unknown at home, more paid in Japan. Tryin'a change that, trade a train-pass for a Maebach - you ain’t this, you ain’t hip. Stay back. - Track Name: Guillotine
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One day I woke up, went to check a garage sale, I thought to myself ‘damn, this could be raw as hell.’ But it was busted, naw really, it sucked ‘til I found a flying guillotine for thirty-six bucks. I accidentally killed the guy who sold me it, without chrome to blow a hole like Moby Dick. Off the dome for MCs seemed appropriate, plus I could hold it one-handed like a goalie stick. Back to the facts: blood spray splattered the grass, I left ‘em lyin’ in the sun like big african cats. Battling just wasn’t challenging, I mastered the craft - swing the chain with the thing and that would be that. With all these heads rolling, I left fans stressin’. It’s hard to make friends when their life span’s questioned. I thought ‘nah - forget it, I’ma keep gangs steppin’ ‘cause I murder crews with a used Wu-Tang weapon.’
Cats wanna step to Socks?
Ease back or else you get the fatal, flying (guillotine.)
Cats wanna step to Bix?
Ease back, or else you get the fatal, flying (guillotine.)
Cats wanna step to the Flight?
Ease back, or else you get the fatal, flying (guillotine.)
One day I painted it crimson, as you can imagine, and named my favorite flying blade ‘Little Red Dragon.’ Everywhere I went you’d hear the severed heads draggin’ ‘cause I tied ‘em on the back of my (real red wagon.) Gloks pulled out - but before they could blaze the shit, I’d kill everyone in a twelve block radius. Never discriminated black, white, or asian kids, ain’t none of ‘em better than Socks - even Jadakiss. Suckas got silenced with a dose of violence, from droppin’ such science over mostly violins. Cats tried kung-fu - I wasn’t buying it. Chopped legs on the floor mean no more flying kicks. ‘Cause I ain’t ‘bout scrappin’ with kids, I just decapitate them quick then I’m snatching their wigs. Got hands like Skratch Bastid when I’m splashing your chick, plus I like what’s on your neck so I’ll slash it with this...
Cats wanna step to Kils?
Ease back or else you get the fatal, flying (guillotine.)
Cats wanna step to Jorun?
Ease back, or else you get the fatal, flying (guillotine.)
Cats wanna step to the Burner?
Ease back, or else you get the fatal, flying (guillotine.) - Track Name: Take Chains Off
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When I got kicked out of high-school I had to apply tools in order to avoid spending nine to five screwed. Killing Walmart, living by my rules, and kept on beefin’ with the heat like thai food. Fast forward: got a busted passport and stolen night-stick I could probably get cash for. Passionate for stashin’ shit in dashboards of friends’ whips: a friendship they didn’t ask for. Keep in mind that we peeped the doorman at Staples, rolling deep, speaking foreign. My whole clan sleeps in mornings while you chat with your co-workers ‘bout how your weekends’ boring. Major corporations: I had your stuff, getting busy with a phoney buspass and gloves. Toy cop scarecrows ain’t fast enough when I’m racking, no diggity - bagged it up.
If you think that I’m joking, then so be it, but when I’m broke I get colder than a soviet. Sofa set from the Brick? Yea, stolen shit, and I was gone by the time they even noticed it. I tear it out. Fly kicks is all that I care about. It’s awkward at Footlocker when I wear ‘em out. Poverty sucks and the economy’s rough. It’s only comedy ‘cause I ain’t pawning your stuff. So get blazed ‘til the pain is gone, stay home and Playstation ‘til your brain is raw. I’m not paid in the shade with some gators on. I’m at Jane’s with your dame and my pager on. Fish rappers get caught when they breathe the hook. Bad vibes rip flower kids - seeds are shook. See, everything I need - I took. You ever need a crook? I thought I told y’all to read a book. You didn’t listen. - Track Name: Don’t Turn Around featuring Edgar Allen Floe
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I can’t turn around. I’ve come too far to turn back. Now I burn words into tracks. I knew this kid back in the day, he used to tuck his pants into his socks when rackin’ his paint. When it came to color schemes he had immaculate taste like pistachio, terracotta, aqua and grape. At a young age, left mom and dad in the dust, started droppin classes and poppin tags in the bus. Black mops in the bag was a must, always holdin so much rustoleum his hands were black from the crust. He cruised through the streets amused with the beef, whistled tunes through his teeth with the moves of a thief. Didn’t talk - more likely to do than to speak. Put a fill-in in the caf and cut school for a week. Every spot he rocked another notch on his belt, but little did he know the fumes were rottin his health, plus the cops had a plot to get him locked in a cell. As he ran down the alley all he thought to himself was...
(Don’t turn around) gotta keep goin’- gotta keep on.
(Don’t turn around) gotta keep movin’- gotta be strong.
(Don’t turn around) - ‘cause nothing in the past will change.
I knew brother man since day-one. He represented new beginnings as the first son, the first child. Grew up under the worst cloud, full of pouring rain...low-budget so his block remained flooded with drugs and crime. He really wanted to shine but a rare gem in a diamond mine full of souls of coal. He kept diggin - found knowledge and wisdom, and understood it’s so easy to be a victim. But nobody’s perfect, illegal splurges - larsony‘coulda shoulda woulda’ been the verdict if he ever got prosecuted but never was caught, can’t tell him not to do it if you never knew. But no, I’m speakin true-story not a movie, that little boy is yours truly. A tough road but Floe’s goal was finishing first. They say ‘god made dirt - dirt won’t hurt - if you just...’
(Don’t turn around) gotta keep goin’- gotta keep on.
(Don’t turn around) gotta keep movin’- gotta be strong.
(Don’t turn around) - ‘cause nothing in the past will change.
I met this girl a couple months back. We used to check movies drink coffee chit chat. We had the odd drink but we never hit the sack ‘cause she already had a man and I respected that. Be the first to admit it, young lady looked good. She always worked hard and kept her nose in the books, going through to be a doctor and certainly would ‘cause her average did damage when it broke through the roof. Our friendship was plutonic but her boyfriend didn’t want it, it’s ironic cause that fact made her wanna get up on it. So just when I think I’m in the friend zone, she’s looking at me like I’m open in the end zone. Made a pass at the kid so i’m asking the chick ‘bout her other half - she acted all passive and shit. If I was nineteen I’d be smashin it quick so when I told her to chill, she asked me to split and
(Don’t turn around) gotta keep goin’- gotta keep on.
(Don’t turn around) gotta keep movin’- gotta be strong.
(Don’t turn around) - ‘cause nothing in the past will change.
I can’t turn around.
I’ve come too far to turn back.
Now I burn words into tracks. - Track Name: Rock The Discotech featuring Timbuktu
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We be the big bad cats from the Backburner catalogue. Keep it jam packed and burn 'em with a battlebot. This rat pack spits sermons that'll grab applause zip that lip - smack rappers that we shadow box. Slide crossfaders, kids listen to the analogue. Sandals got tangled: you're forced to kiss the camel paw. No more haters, we bounced 'em like a paddle ball. Getting paid, looking good, well-read, and I'm tall. Six pack trashed dipped caps with the camoflauge. Keep it Mad Max and permanently sabotage. When I'm up to bat big cameras'll snap a lot. Think it can't happen? We decapitate a jabberjaw. We too cold, suckas shoulda packed a camisol, start an urgent bulletin and end it with a cannonball. Dry myself off, play piano with Diana Krall, eat some calimari, pet a kitty cat and a dog. Ride the rhythm madcap, servin' up the alcholol. Slippin' Tampax to you bitches like I'm Santa Clause. Flippin' like we're lab rats trippin' out on planet rock. Give the gift of gab, mash rappers into apple sauce. Socks Timbuk - royalty like in sample law, ample broads tryna stampede like a cattle mob. Matadors handle love handles like a panda claw. Tour the land, rock with fans, now ain't that a job?
I'll give 'em the gyst and just bomb it, and hit 'em with a critical list of sick phonics. The rhythm is a mistress sippin' hypnotique, she bit him in a twisted fit his lips throbbin'. I whip 'em like a masochist with symphonics. Gorillas in the mist and kid we King Kongin'. You're dealin' with the masters - trip and get slaughtered. Admitted that I'm callin' in sick like Matt Broderick. I giggle at the miserable cliques that diss on this. We switch system syllable crits and spit flawless. Pivot on a slithering victim's thick wallet, dismissing ridiculed pricks - I'm just honest. Spritz on a centerfold's lips then drip on it, then shift with incredible lift like techtonics. Flip it on the griddle get hip to Tim Wallace. Hits plain and simple, and bet ya can't call it. Infinite riddles on this and get cosmic, we rippin' through the middle of cliffs in crisp garments, wiggle, intermingle with chicks who get braless, and jiggle for a video clip then just pause it. Listen - we could never get bit, we're too conscious, we kicking some subliminal shit like séances, get yourself some kibbles and bits you bitch chaunces, we doin' it for giggles and shits and it's progress. - Track Name: The Roof
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It always came back to the roof. Feedback, recap on the truth. The past is the proof. Some say it’s hard at the top, but the top is the spot where we’d always come back to recoup in beat-up sneaks; postering out in the rain, clothes soaked chased ghosts for the fame. The process of buildin’ a name: every time we got close doors closed, but we chose to maintain. Maple Butta Mondays, live rap, spoken word IDS chicks smokin’ bird. JE and the mothership: we them other kids killin’ Saturdays for the love of it, because of it Bix sold his whip - moved to crack corner. We seen a lot of shit go down on that corner. Not swellin’ up from the kids though, block fillin’ up with the thick smoke, cops yellin’ up to my window. Hyper cats, PRD cypher scraps find out where the lifers at. Won and lost battles like binary code, we dropped science with the library closed. Taryn Della schooled the Socks on the ghetto tip, shot the breeze with Aziz (formed the fellowship,) Battle Royale took years to fight, but then again some verses take years to write.
But it always came back to the roof. Feedback, recap on the truth. The past is the proof. Some say it’s hard at the top, but the top is the spot where we’d always come back to recoup in beat-up sneaks; postering out in the rain, clothes soaked chased ghosts for the fame. The process of buildin’ a name: every time we got close doors closed, but we chose to maintain.
FYs got the city crushed, quit bangin’ them stickers and when I heard, I strangled the liquor. That cool clown kid Biz Markie Big Daddy Kane slang kicker; fly mommy frame hitter. Praise the universal balance of the most-high. I’ll never understand those reasons for who’s breathin’. Days like the ebb and flow of the coastline. Lost countries under the seas. Two seasons. Underestimated we overcame. Battled each other, twin pheonixes borne of the flame. Code of the samurai: we all promised some day, now you’re overlooking miles through the clouds and sun rays. The message: too strong. The exes moved on and never looked back down the path they swooned on. I keep your name written on my whiteboard right above my list of goals so I can write more,
But it always came back to the roof. Feedback, recap on the truth. The past is the proof. Some say it’s hard at the top, but the top is the spot where we’d always come back to recoup in beat-up sneaks; postering out in the rain, clothes soaked chased ghosts for the fame. The process of buildin’ a name: every time we got close doors closed, but we chose to maintain and as the days go by I understand why I had to struggle - we had to struggle to make something out of nothing.
