(feat. Just Da Barber)



[Intro: P.R. Terrorist]

Not enough liquor, man

Go to the L.Q. or somethin' man

This shit is crazy right here, yo

The fuck... Terrorist shit, bitch

Yo, yo, yo



[P.R. Terrorist]

Rap's so vicious, attack tracks like bats on bitches

I'm sorry captain, but I be clappin' snitches

Bury a bastard in digits, rap for riches

Peel a cap back for my life, and my little misses

Big bushes from a seldom, seen dreams you choose to follow

Either it's soul or the slugs, and his toast was hollow

They part team will follow, surround the enemy

And talk about the shit tomorrow, while I'm loadin' my cargo

Stamp the barcode, on the CD's and ship 'em out lovely

Before the bootleggers try and dub me

Came a long way from nothin', and I still got a long way

Who would of thought some day, would of been makin' music

Could of been all up in your pockets, rock it to your eye socket

Don't knock it, please tell your man, don't cock it

Chances is slim, nigga take a glance at your kin

I'm countin' one -- any more seconds is the end



[Chorus: P.R. Terrorist]

I fell victim to the game (who to name, who to blame) [x8]

When I find out I'm gon' make them feel the pain



[P.R. Terrorist]

I'm on the block like any man

The difference between and you, is I understand

You askin' questions, 'what's that shit up in my hand'

Answer the questions, I fry that shit up in your pan, bitch-nigga

Understand, I'm the P.R.T., Error is this

His lyrics are unique and his vocals are crisp

Bang that shit in your jeeps, or in a block with the fifth

So, front on this, kid, front on this

So I can let the shit that's in my hand, light up my wrist

And let the shit that's in it, like, eat through your chest

I'm far from the best, I'm more like the worst, you've ever seen

Spit green phlem from blunts, same colors my jeans

And my boots'll be brown, geared up with street dial

Let the beats pound, cuz beef hound round the block

This is hip hop, niggaz fuck around and went pop



[Chorus x8]



[Just Da Barber]

I'm like the Phantom of the Opera, from the Little Shop of Horrors

It be Da Barber, slash rapper, slash reporter

I keep the revolver, tucked near the waist, don't even bother

With the all-starter, who get down like Vince Carter

Got it soul proper, cut your face like a chopper

Be the heart stopper, on the drop-of-the-dime rocker

Got it locked for all the Pradas, stash box under the rock

Keep a hard glock for hard knocks

So when the ball drops, I lick off four shots for four cops

Bounce outta state, open up four spots

More props to game, blocks to claim

Grown my own weed crops, spots the name



[P.R. Terrorist]

Knowledge to gain, Terrorist and Just re-aim

And when find the muthafucka, we gon' make him feel the pain

I feel victim to the game (who to name, who to blam)