lirik lagu rodan – roll call
rodan ft. kong, kamackeris, and gigan – “roll call”
[emcee(s): rodan, kong, kamackeris, and gigan]
[producer(s): x-ray da mindbenda]
[intro (overlapped with hook): kong]
n-gg-s done f-cked up. monsta island has returned. kongcrete, the most hated. word is bond, smack the blood out of them. pterodactyl. let ‘em know n-gg-, let ‘em know. what? uh
[hook (overlapped with intro): sample from king geedorah on mf doom ft. monsta island czars (ft. king cesar, rodan, megalon, kamackeris, king geedorah, and kong) – “who you think i am?”] (x4)
i bring confusion like roll call
to emcees so-called, hoes be like, “yup, i told y’all”
[verse 1: rodan]
ayyo
capital city nights, blood letters written in prison on a kite
put that crab out of sight, blow that scallywag like his first name
was kid dynamite. one day home, flirting with women that
stare, macking off effeminate flare, short skirts, fly
cinnamon hair. grimy n-gg-s got angst, rolling like
tanks through tiananmen square, elevate through power of diamond
industry virgins rub on your hymens. f-ggot record label execs:
this ain’t 1955, and we ain’t no frankie lymons
why do fools follow a lying critic? bop your head
respect the rhyming misfit, brilliant timing, resilient shining
drop more jewels than the diamond district, designed and fitted
jury acquitted. verbally eclectic, nervously
respected, purposely expected, anointed ever since
i was cervically ejected. a-alike criminal mind
stay surgically connected. solo, one-man, going for self
or ride thick, hundred-man-deep, gangland-style, and me and
a sidekick smack the c.o. at the off-duty party and
slide quick—that’s a live clique—rocking heat under the seat
glide slick, sitting on a wide brick—blow for blow
celebrated t-t for tatting, disguised gats wrapped in silk
and satin, and bounce to the rap diplomatting, upper-room
chit-chatting over this and that and going platinum spitting pig
latin, written in manhattan, landmarked as a true believer
wait just to send a thousand deaths to a deceiver
rugged like sports apparel, you’re stuck in front of playstation with pac-
-man fever. monsta global, plan may destroy man
marching through the terrordome like babes in toyland
industry domination with goal to blow up like white boy bands
on the battle site, seeking out the sun like a satellite
reception trouble-free, bubble-screen tv, kick more
lyrics per verse than most n-gg-s spit on a double cd
[verse 2: kong]
if i be kong, the devil’s
advocate -ss-ssin, -ss-ssin is k-slash slashing
fasten seatbelt, third gear p-ssing har-ssment
lyrical black b-st-rd burn this plastic, d-ck
stupid -sses for access after blasting
struck quickly, bust back. cost your stupid -ss
a buck fifty plus tax, screaming, “f-ck
that.” you’s a tough cat, non-sweet two-piece
chin full of meat, kongcrete. f-ck a fork
in a tussle, i’d rather go up in a duffle, have you
slow up on your hustle, toe-up under the trestle, scuffle
mouth muzzled, puzzled—should have spoke up. woked up
c-ked up, roped up under the sofa. me?
hoping -ss, broke -ss. instead of dope or smoking
hash, drink rum out of a broken gl-ss. crooked
tooth, knock-kneed, cop heat from swap meets, pop
heat to calmly drop deep at top speed
philosophic topics obnoxious and raucous
like soup with chopsticks, y’all can’t eat, your profit
all from garbage, we profits off of logic
my name and style: kongcrete, the most
hated, underestimated, rated, never dated, just laid it
decaffeinated, cask decayed, they p-ssed the weighted
my man blast and blaze him. “what happened?” “you ate him”
we laughed then played ‘em, master players at the brook house
of m-ss orators. kongcrete
[hook: sample from king geedorah on mf doom ft. monsta island czars (ft. king cesar, rodan, megalon, kamackeris, king geedorah, and kong) – “who you think i am?”]
hoes be like, “yup, i told y’all”
i told y’all
i told y’all, i told y’all
i told y’all, i told y’all
i told y’all, i told y’all
i bring confusion like roll call
to emcees so-called, hoes be like, “yup, i told y’all”
i bring confusion like roll call
to emcees so-called, hoes be like, “yup, i told y’all”
[verse 3: kamackeris]
you get
smashed, you b-tch–ss, you ain’t gonna last
we represent those decepticons, boom bash
way back in the diggy. now n-gg-s getting jiggy
fronting like they’re murdering, up in your crib, burglaring
when they ain’t moving nath and talking nothing
straight fronting, microphone-bluffing
and you ain’t wanna put me down, y’all
n-gg-s must have thought i was clown, but this
world go round, and kwite def going loud
yo, i get up on my -ss ‘cause my -ss don’t slouch
some of y’all be lazy, looking for
handouts, talking that sh-t with the yuck mouth
go ahead with it, get off my d-ck and for-
-feit it. you couldn’t do a step in my kicks, now you’s
a critic? that’s that bullsh-tted. y’all f-cking
n-gg-s be out boning broads who don’t give
a f-ck—first night, they drop drawers, and you could care
less about catching some hiv
what y’all n-gg-s really need is some a-i-d
so i say, “la vie.” y’all n-gg-s probably
think you gotta thug just to emcee, y’all be
fantasy, disney in 2g
never kick mentally, blind spiritually
[hook: sample from king geedorah on mf doom ft. monsta island czars (ft. king cesar, rodan, megalon, kamackeris, king geedorah, and kong) – “who you think i am?”]
to emcees so-called, hoes be like, “yup, i told y’all”
[verse 4: gigan]
quickly
falling in the gutter, departing on that other
anyone come get it—sh-t, even stalin or my brother
palm gripping rubber, spit it all in your gutter
slice through you blubber like a gemstar through b-tter
hustlers like me don’t see the name. hand scale, the weight
in his face, yo, popping but, sh-t, still need a gram
o-z’s, see your fam, not greyhound but four
fiends blessed, plus it moved beyond peter pan
see, the plan’s a bag of chicken sh-t. since you’re from new york
beyond, where they’re on the thick and sh-t, gas ‘em up so they
flap lips and sh-t ‘bout where the green move fiends, and who
stack chips and sh-t, raise clips at quivers, stripping
sh-t, spread samples out, let ‘em know whose
sh-t this is and that they should stick to this. it’s that
raw sh-t, have you stutter-stepping and drooling. if brothers
talk war, quickly c-ck weapons and school ‘em, tell ‘em:
my treaties ain’t equal—on some biz—and you’ll
feel this desert eagle if you play paul revere, so don’t
tell your people brooklon is here. turn, the waist
stands out like bugsy siegel strapped in war gear. don’t take
a hustler to know a hustler
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