Intro:
It’s the mongrels, the hoods and DJ bones/
With Mass MC, and four microphones/
We’re about to get down, and prove we catch rec/
And make you bounce more than a cold man’s check/
Verse 1: Fatface
I’m in full effect, like PJ’s magazine/
All my flows are butter cause I don’t use margarine/
Mate, spread the word, fatface is dropping raps/
I got your head nodding to the kicks during claps/
Perhaps you need a drink? Well shout me one too/
When I bust lyrics, I get thirsty for a brew/
Why not grab a slab? I’m sure the Hood’s agree/
“There’s nothing like a coldy, even better when it’s free”/
Stylish rhymes get flexed, especially when I’m drunk/
The piss in my system, brings out the funk/
Sometimes I run amok, but now I’m just maxing/
Back to the beat, that’s my way of relaxing/
I live for hip hop, I’m just sculling down a lager/
Ever days a hangover and the headaches seem harder/
What they really can’t stand is a pissed, bogan wanker/
I hate them fools more, than ‘Morning, hey Sri Lanka”/
Still, my life is chill, kinda like an esky/
Do I have any complaints? They’re all pretty pesky/
Maybe alcohol poisoning, but that I don’t fear/
The one thing I do is a pub with no beer/
Verse 2: Mass MC
Now I’m a crossbred that’s humble/
Mass MC be on the free to dismantle/
The ones that mumbled lyricism/
Crews locked in verbal prison, they’re styles weak/
While dominion crew workers collab on Hilltop’s streets/
This is my fam, Debris hard up for once when he ate mega ramps/
Through the air, got more lucks/lux than a Ceddar Caravan/
All I smell in Adelaide is cones, ain’t seen an ugly chic yet/
Or skyscrapers/
But heaps of vapors on walls, it’s for a cause/
B-boys and girls in this part of Aus rock for sure/
Mad yumps run underground plantations/
I see it in their faces, they’re deeper than Hattians/
DJ bones spin faster than a scarcely, too dry [?]/
Hahahahaha, run and hide/
So how could you even think you trying to do these things/
I put fishing line on your hands and feet and keep you pulling strings/
Verse 3: Pressure
Now who the MC’s that bring it live-r and tighter/
From freestyle writers, to biters, DJ Bones the insider/
Now, perfection’s what I strive for/
Cause imma true survivor/
Hear my voice from the underground, less you a diver/
Put your hands together, for the sound provider/
Cause many found desire to cover ground that’s high [?]/
And these men speaking in tongues that make your eardrums bleed/
Not here to give them what they want
We here to give them what they need/
But some got fascination for the trash they make/
And they just masturbation, laceration/
Probably best in infatuations/
I rock tracks, 100 percent saturation/
It all comes down to the cash I making and wack creations/
From stagnations blocking your airways, MC’s rocking for airplay/
Why don’t you top in Belair way?/
Ah, Pressure set it in motion like it’s heavy on the track/
I took some from hip hop, and got a whole lot back/
I cut a whole lotta slack, paying dues, from twisting caps/
Now, mate, it’s systematic, kicking raps, so where the listeners at?/
All gathered around/
I make moves to pay dues, make moves, the ones/
I make using your fake crews, that’s late news/
Now I socialise with the local guys, put it on wax/
And vocalise, global wise/
And I don’t stop the rock/
You know we won’t Suffa, show ‘em how we do it/
Brother show ‘em how we know/
Verse 4: Suffa
Well, I’d like to know if, you got the notion/
(Suffa MC) said, I’d like to know if, you got the notion/
That I’m not number one b-boy, I rougher all of y’all/
Keeping crowds packed from wall to wall/
So rock, rock y’all, don’t stop y’all (?)/
So keep on, like time, marching in formation/
Hilltop is, foot soldiers for the hip hop nation/
Battling flows with flows, battling hoes at shows/
Lyrical can doe, lyrical can doe/
So smash back, slash, I take your title/
With the sewer sound of my suicidal recital/
Who is down? You better because this rhyme will/
Cut up MC’s like Dj’s on vinyl/
And your time will be, final decided/
So when it comes down to it, the underground fluent/
Shall rise to the top, and flood these streets/
With Suffa’s speech over, muddy beats/
Wassup, we speak, we build, we talk/
On a culture imported here from New York/
It’s hip hop, it lives inside of us/
And we only let it out when we bust/
