Director: Ovie Etseyatse
Production company: Polygon Studio
1st AD: Michael Hooley
B Cam: Dan Gill
Convoy: Grand Vision
Concert Footage: Kenneth Theophin
Title Aerial Footage: Quron Witherspoon
Lyrics:
Verse 1:
Hold the cold one like he hold a old gun
Like he hold the microphone and stole the show for fun
Or a foe for ransom, flows is handsome
O’s in tandem, anthem, random tantrum
Phantom of the Grand Ole Opry, ask the dumb hottie
Masked, pump-shotty—somebody stop me
Hardly come sloppy on a retarded hard copy
After rockin’ parties, he departed in a jalopy
Watch the droptop papi
Known as the grimy limey, slimy— try me blimey!
Simply smashing in a fashion that’s timely
Madvillain dashing in a beat-rhyme crime spree
We rock the house like rock ‘n roll
Got more soul than a sock with a hole
Set the stage with a goal
To have the game locked in a cage getting shocked with a pole
Overthrow ’em like throwing Rover a biscuit
A lot of bitches think he’s overly chauvinistic
Let go his dick if that’s the case
Rats, what a waste, there’s more cats to chase—
Dogs, he got it like new powers
Woke up, wrote and spit the shit in a few hours
Sheesh! Been unleashed since the glee club
Had your fam saying, “Please make me a dub”
Well, since you ask kindly
Where he been behind the mask, who can’t find me?
You’re blind, in the wine zone, leave your mind blown
When he shine with the 9, he’s a rhinestone…
Cowboy
[Applause]
No, no, no, no enough
Verse 2:
Goony goo-goo, loony cuckoo
Like Gary Gnu off New Zoo Revue, but who knew
The mask had a loose screw? Hell, could hardly tell
Had to tighten it up like the Drells and Archie Bell
It speaks well of the hyper base
Wasn’t even tweaked and it leaked into cyberspace
Couldn’t wait for the snipes to place
At least a tracklist in bold print typeface
Stopped for a year
Come back with thumbtacks, pop full of beer
We’re hip hop sharecroppers
Used to wear flip flops, now rare gear coppers
He’s in it for the quiche
You might as well not ask him for no free shit, capiche?
Oh, my aching hands
From raking in grands and breaking in mic stands
Villain—his smile stuns ya chick
While he put himself in your shoes run ya kicks
You heard it on the radio, tape it
Play it in your stereo, your crew’ll go apeshit
Raw lyrics—he smells ’em like a hunch
The same intuition that tells him “spike the punch”
Curses, he’s truly the worsest
With enough rhymes to spread throughout the boundless universes
Let the beat blast, she told him wear the mask
He said you bet your sweet ass
It’s made of fine chrome alloy
Find him on the grind, he’s the rhinestone cowboy
[Applause]
Sometimes they were comedic— or relentlessly horrifying
They were the foes of society, whether fighting the local sheriff, or a secret agent
Frequently they mirrored our times: the gangster villains which rival real newspaper headlines of the present day
Collectively, they are the components which have fueled nightmares for decades to come
The villains
Lyrics:
Living off borrowed time, the clock tick faster
That’d be the hour they knock the slick blaster
Dick Dastardly and Muttley with sick laughter
A gunfight and they come to cut the mixmaster
I-C-E cold, nice to be old
Y2G stee twice to threefold
He sold scrolls, lo and behold
Know who’s the illest ever like the greatest story told
Keep your glory, gold and glitter
For half, half of his niggas’ll take him out the picture
The other half is rich and it don’t mean shit-ta
Villain: a mixture between both with a twist of liquor
Chase it with more beer, taste it like truth or dare
When he have the mic, it’s like the place get like: “Aw, yeah!”
It’s like they know what’s ’bout to happen
Just keep ya eye out, like “Aye, aye, captain”
Is he still a fly guy clapping if nobody ain’t hear it?
And can they testify from in the spirit? (Nah)
In living, the true gods
Giving y’all nothing but the lick like two broads
Got more lyrics than the church got “Ooh, Lord”s
And he hold the mic and your attention like two swords
Either that or either one with two blades on it
Hey you, don’t touch the mic like it’s AIDS on it (Yuck)
It’s like the end to the means
Fuck type of message that sends to the fiends?
That’s why he bring his own needles
And get more cheese than Doritos, Cheetos or Fritos
Slip like Freudian
Your first and last step to playing yourself like accordion
When he at the mic, you don’t go next
Leaving pussy cats like why hoes need Kotex
Exercise index, won’t need Bowflex
And won’t take the one with no skinny legs like Joe Tex
In this episode of FTD’s 10th anniversary special, Action hosts an epic pasta cook-off between Meyhem Lauren and Nick Testa. After revealing the mystery ingredients, Nick prepared a pescatarian summer-inspired pasta while Meyhem made a lamb sausage dish. Only one can win, who will it be?
BEAT TROTTERZ © 