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Correct Personal Lyrics
Lyrics
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Artists: I
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Ice-t
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Correct Personal
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Lyrics:
Emcee's no time out, it's time to rhyme out You've dug your own grave, now you must climb out Dig out, crawl out, hide from the fallout 'Cause when I get mad I go all out Ice cooler than the coldest cube, dude And when I'm micin', boy, I'm know to get rude Criminal background, it's time to get down I use a silencer, don't like the loud sound Off my mic blast, you better run fast The last punk that popped junk passed Spit on his grave, laughed, jumped in my stretch Signed his bitch an autograph Syndicate boy, I don't fool out You're full grown, school's out You try to diss?.. I think you better cool out 'Cause your butt is smoke, if we ever duel out This jam is directed, to all of those who expected For me to cold be rejected, but now I'm highly respected And now their ears are infected With dollar signs I've collected Jealous punks, I said it! Personal Take a personal Take it personal, punk, I'm talkin' to you And if they agree with you, then your crew too I never diss an emcee, I wish'em all good luck But if you diss me to my face, duck My style don't ramble, you shouldn't gamble With your grill, I got a fist like an anvil I write a record, lock it on the topic Evil and iz dog the track, then we drop it Record stores rock it, stock it, fans buy it People that never heard of ice-T try it Then you try to diss? You got gall I got gold on my neck and gold on my wall Gold in my fingers, gold in my ear When this jam's spinnin', gold's what you hear Toy, this ain't Christimas, no time to play I ain't no child, punk, you'll get sprayed Illin' on a mega-villan You must want a pine box to go chill in Buried deep, creep, no one will weep 'Cause the next night with your bitch I'll sleep Personal Take it personal I ain't East Coast, West Coast, new style, or old style You wanna know about me? Check police files Get out my face or you might have a bruised one Brass knuckle prints? Yes, I used some I ain't here to boast, I don't do that When I talk it's straight dope, pure facts I rock hard but still called a new jack But talk shit, you're sure to get heard cracked I don't drink or smoke or do dumb drugs But my posse's still labeled street thugs L. A. P. D's got all my boy's mugs Can't use my phone for the damn bugs I live in privacy, don't like suckers hawking me News reporters, some think they can talk for me Lies, misquotes, changin' all my words around But if I catch'em on the street they'll get beat down They get money for hype-type publicity They don't think twice, about dissin' me But that's a mistake, with tha syndicate you shoudn't mess I hope those punk reporters wear vests! Personal Take that personal Now the words I speak to some may sound radical But I'll explain, it's simply mathematical You diss, I diss, this is creates an equal You reply to my diss, this is called a sequel I reply to your diss, this is called a battle Not intelligent, not very adult So I don't battle, I just put heads out A straight line is always the direct route I write lyrics clear, to leave no doubt Don't even have to say who I'm speakin' about You know who you are, you just jealous 'Cause you hear my records are million sellers Try to say I'm wack, out on the streets While your whole crew is jockin' my beats See me on T. V. And in the papers See me at a jam, and catch vapors! Personal
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