Sons Of 3rd Bass Lyrics - The Cactus Album - 3rd Bass

Here's my advice to all amateurs planin' to give a performace 

Speak up, and keep the act movin' 

Servin' the role, a sole step child 

Talk of C.C. or keep sleepin' 

While wakin' up to noise of 3rd B A S S, bass 

Success is butter for Serch's space 

Spoken slang gets played like the lottery 

Your lyrics are incorrect, so you step to me 

Lookin' for the key to release that first piece 

Three times two is six, Pete is one-three 

I'm the other half, known as the other trey 

Tourin' to wild screams, the third son's born 

Swarm to the lyrics 'cause Serch is your father 

Screamin' "Hey ladies", why bother? 

Sons, slim ones flee from the 3rd 

Words, spoken, a silver spoon stuck in the throat 

Young useless, lyrically careless 

Rhyme revolves around modes of mindless 

If everyone spoke of stick-up, it's pick of a beast' 

Prone to a lick of a waste 

Taste the flav' of the original 

Orphaned trio, abandoned by lyrical 

Through us, the echelon exposed with the roll with no soul 

Counterfeit style, born sworn and sold 

Out with high voice distorted 

If a beast to wish play fetus, I'd have him aborted 

Put to bed, three kids to a third track 

Cap the front and grip, when they heard that 

The crew from the L.Q. stepped to the Club Mars 

Shook the beast and soon to be dubbed stars 

Starrin' roles stone-faced from the brothers 

Ludicrous whinin', meanin' when the others 

Stand by 'em, while they take the fall 

The beast now lives in the capital 

Record wrecks sets, Def Jam a true wrecker 

The label is nothin' but MC Black 'n' Decker 

Three boys buggin' to the A.M 

You step to the Serch and I slam 

Negative mind, paid as snakes who can't rhyme 

Play the dude it's sucker time 

I stand I take a bust in my nut 

And gave birth to three bastard sons 

A record label, a king to 4th letter 

Passin phases, non-legitimate trendsetters 

Pop figures who figured they'd get paid 

Exploitin' art the black man made 

Played out hardcore flaws, step to stage 

Your biggest fan, nine years of age 

Broke out 'cause the swindler took your Ducat 

No talent on the tune, you might as well suck it 

Yo Serch, you know about that slum I'm speakin' on? 

Word is Bond Pete, school 'em 

You know about that silver spoon havin' 

Buckshot acne showin', L.A. weak-ass sellout 

Non-legitimate, tip-doggin', Jethro pseudo intellectual 

Dust-smokin', pretty boy playwrite posin' 

Folks wiggin', whinin' annoyin' Def Jam reject Devil 

White bread no money havin' slum village people clonin' step children 

Sam sever, serve the rest 

Yo Sam, school 'em 

He is stupid but he knows that he is stupid 

And that, almost makes him smart let's listen