Sir Mix-a-lot - Testarosa Lyrics
Im your testarosa. first gearWatch me go, keep em in fearRumble, young man rumbleBrother wont fumble, muthafukas just crumbleGaskets crank, rappers get spankStripes get yank, a superior rankWont stop the jock in some american car use a lyrical radarBut Im rolling, the cartels tollingFor the ds keep foldingMost cadillac rappers get look and disturbBy the jet black blurMe, the testarosa running like it suppose taDont try to get closerCause you might get lost in the dual exhaustDont ever try to ***** wit a bossHigh octane there aint no pingWhen I swing on a lyrical speed kingAnd thats just first gear, listen for the upshiftWho can get wit thisIm your testarosaSecond gear, look it here queerIm in here, hitting like spearsThe rhyme cartel slings legalized dopeSome cope, others get (gunshot noises)Lost on the boss, its finish is flawless12 cylinders listen to the horsesIt accelerates smoothMove or else get moveRun for cover my brother, suckers are getting smotheredI ? cutted? you other ? smutters? rammed in the gutterMy rep is kept, muthafukas must stepThe best get swept and let out to restHuuuu, look at that air intakeSecond gear, passing fakesRevolution per lyric get higherHow can I chill when my rhymes on fireAs I approach the end of my tachMy lyrical horse power blows to the maxRed line is reached to the peak of my speechAnd I told ya, Im your testarosaTestarosaGear number three, get off the clutch and dont let em upKeep em all down on these young bucksLet em know big boss is just a bit quickerGet the pictureBacktalk tolerated none, sonLeft you at the gun when I hit gear oneNow Im in third and you think thats quickHuh, wait till I hit fifthMe and my pack, we keep plenty of snackpacksYou said fat now Im yo to the maxWant mix-a-lot for your next attackHey, yo, critical mass, yea, I got your gatTwo hundred sixty pounds of pure painCritical mass is my homeboys nameMy personal trainer, taking weight gainerGot the bulk to crush and contain yaOn the tach, Im like a wind axCutting up air like boeings aircraftTime to shift and let my lyrical seatbelt hold yaIm your testarosaUp to fourth gear, the speed increasePolice got beef wit the word chiefMove or lose, I excuse the wack dudesYou light my fuse and clear out or get usedI go 100 in a 55No need to lip synch, Im straight out liveSo Im rough lust who wanna be toughYou fuss and cuss wearing that raiders stuffFake fools from around the wayKnowing damn well, you aint from laAshamed where you come from son, so you rattleLike it or not, I scream straight up seattleRip up streets wit a lyrical sweetDont peep or creep or you lose your freakThe cams growl, engine loudMy tongue keep beating em downRev it up, get ready for fifthJust hit em wit a maximum disI roll ya, fold ya, mold ya, I told ya I control yaAnd Im your testarosaIm your testarosaYo punish, show em what time it isGear number five, youre eyes get wideSo realize that I survive and I rhyme for mineI rope the dope and is he coming up, nopeI aint the joke so dont hope for my throatThere it is, the whiz gets hisThe word quiz is what it is and mix dont giveSight to the wack who act like maxAnd try to jack a pop rap to hit the mapThat aint like me, it aint coolTo rob another fool them claim you ruleYou boot but not me, troops, you like juiceSo you hit the stage wearing my bootsUh ,uh cupcake, I aint about to get rape by fakeJust look at the tail light shrink and then thinkHow I left you pink in a lyrical kinkTime to drop to my gears and then stopcause I lock the box on them clowns that jockTurbo cone is 230 up on yaIm your testarosa(3x)
