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lirik lagu epic beard men - fresh to death (feat: dope knife)

(fresh. to. death.)
(don’t just stand there, let’s get to it!)

i wear thirteens, know what i mean?
strictly double-xl, and i don’t read that f-ckin’ magazine
throw on some baggy fatigues, mash on the fashion police
two jacket swagger from weez, half of you rappers, i see
wear street-wear brands, they put my graphic on tees
then try to get me to rock that sh-t to help with publicity
you must be kidding me? a fitting? i’ll go on a k!lling spree
rip out the st-tches and seams, that sh-t you bit from the team
i got: racks on racks and black on black, they yelling:
johnny cash-back! please obscure your logo
cause you owe rappers like ascap
we don’t see the promo value when posing for admats
and since most people won’t allow you to pay them in hashtags
(is that bad?)
hey, yo, the flow’s straight hazmat and your clothes ain’t half that, so i donate trash bags!
i don’t make dad-rap, though my kids stay fly
so, go ahead and try it on, see if it’s your size!

but i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth! (no! no, no, no!)
but i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth! (no! no, no, no!)
but i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth! (no! no, no, no!)
i wear what i like, you just wear my sh-t out

(huh! huh! huh! huh!)

try not to come before the pixels in my avatar load
this ain’t no compet-tion, this is me in battle-scar mode
piles of sh-t only get measured in toxic rap-bars
or in rock catwalks with anorexics rocking fat-farms
(you spit sweet-sixteens!)
i straddle that, lapse the disgust and smuggle the struggle of your daddy’s trust, to the back of the bus!
it don’t take an idiot-savant, hillbilly-with-heart, to recognise what the prize, kid, he’s won!
so, who let the critical m-ss commence?
slinging afterlife jackets, and these half–ss attempts to p-ss the buck
end the fed, feed the poor, even the score and, um, hedge our bets
deep pockets and cheap wallets, and the scene that seems
to seek solace in ripping off seamstresses of street knowledge
derelicte’s garbage is so hot! so, don’t talk trash!
i speak sinus and blow spots, so, how ’bout that?

i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth (no! no, no, no!)
i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth! (no! no, no, no!)
i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth! (no! no, no, no!)
and remove your f-cking shoes when you step in my house

(huh! huh! huh! huh!)

(yeah, dope.)

gaddafi shades make it real hard to find a date
f-ck her right-away! i strut in traffic, i might be late
find a way. tell me my sh-t is fresh, what you trying to say?
who cares? i’m in the same rude-wear since ’98
true sh-t, i’m busting great moves in the same shoes
how you staying smooth wearing motherf-ckin’ slave jewels
fake crews, fabric is real, people counterfeit
on the day the casket is sealed, it ain’t worth announcing sh-t! stop the cr-p. the only time i’m poppin’ tags is when i’m cut a hole into a motherf-ckin’ stock in half
got my bags, walking out the designer store, loaded with a box of swag! mult-task, i can smoke and fight and dab
i’m a dad. (?)
get off at the next stop, take the sh-t you just cop
and i will take the ceo and put him in a sweatshop
yell out: ‘trash talk!’, and i’m dishing it loud
(come up on the catwalk and i p-ss in the crowd)

i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth (no! no, no, no!)
i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth! (no! no, no, no!)
i don’t pop tags, i pop off at the mouth! (no! no, no, no!)
clear thirty kicks and they’re square in your couch

(fresh. to. death.)
(strange famous!)

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