C-Rayz Walz - Stupid Def [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Intro: Poison Pen and (C-Rayz Walz)]
Fresh, y’all (Fresh, y’all)
All y’all (Yes, y’all)
To the top (Yes, y’all)
‘Til we out of breath, y’all
Right, y’all (Left, y’all)
Funky funk (Fresh, y’all)
East, y’all (West, y’all)
[?] to the death, y’all

[Verse 1: Percee P]
We’re now in your auditory canal. I’m a stereo sound
Try to get with the P and this’ll be burial ground
I entice and charge the largest price
To rock pockets of [?] [the fact that I’m that nice?]
Liable to take your title with my vital rap recital
And this epitome—consider me the idol
From the Bronx—the shit. my response is quick
If you diss me or piss me off, I’mma stomp your dick
Strictly poetical, dope knows a rope from a [?]
Quoted and [?]. Folks catching the vapors is the result
Leaking words from ink pens, leave you thinking
Gotta rewind every line from a rhyme, find a distinct [?]
Perc’ is cold-chilling—my shows is so thrilling
My flow is the fourth villain—I’m [?] killing
For every hottie jocking me in every party
I’ll pull some bags. Never [?], but [sticking?] everybody
Lyrical chef—adversaries are left
Dying, crying by horrifying—the case is the faces of death
The P is uno. You know? Number O-N-E
‘Cause I know and he know and she know and we know the [?] emcees
That can touch the P or fuck with me, but luckily [?]

[Verse 2: Poison Pen]
Yo, it’s like, “Yes, yes, y’all,” to the beat. [All?]
Keep on in the dance in my b-boy stance
Poison Pen. I’ll smack you to friend
Now you look like Siamese twins—looking at [?] like, “Where they find these kids?”
My voice make anything I chant to an anthem
Put on your rap [caps?], leave the floor, start discussing weather
Strictly rewind material—repeat mine
Let’s take it outside—I’ll beat you ass with a street sign
See my [?] from your plaque and make [?], kid (Fuck you doing here?)
[?] something
Reversed into creation, fornication—yo, you feeling [?]
Celebrating living, but when the corks fly, you could lose an eye
Poison Pen and they rock Bed-Stuy

[Verse 3: C-Rayz Walz and (Poison Pen)]
Of course I’m fresh (Of course I’m fly)
Like planes on the ground (Take off to the sky)
Some people know (Others ask, “Why?”)
All the shorties follow us like the ice cream guy
Like the ice cream guy (like the ice cream guy?)
Like the ice cream guy (like the ice cream guy?)
Like the ice, like the ice, like the ice cream guy
This is hip for real [?]
‘Cause I’m strong like the Donkey Kong gorilla
Make a mill at the most. Iller styles that top [Dilla?]
Who shot squealers. You [cross?] [?] like Glock dealers
Mad colorful, but I’m true precision
My right hook’ll make you see the world in Kool-G-vision
Wile loud like the locks on Goonie missions
This flick shit got you slipping like, “Yo, my booty dripping”
Fact or fiction: you still play the back like Pippen
You should [acrobatics?] tight on mics—you ain’t flipping
Start dipping. Jet, get your mittens, little kitten
Run—the MCs I battle be missing
I say, “Damn!” Still repping the peeps
I straight BLAM! My best weapon’s the beat
Yo, you stepping to C? I’m collecting your fee
Let’s swing an episode of speech backseat of my Jeep
In the street, Casio, or MPC
My technique through audio or MP3
My [?] clip yelling, “Empty me!” (“Empty me!”)
Putting heads to bed. Putting heads to rest now
I write down screenplays for my [?]

[Verse 4: L.I.F.E. Long]
I rhyme in black fitted-out sets while
Shadowboxing with the silhouette of death gasping for breath
Tryna find the light [?] of darkness
My world parallel to hell where fools dwell with the same stories to tell
Everybody wants they record to sell
But I’d rather excel than spit nothing over recycled [?]
Too many get caught up in the same money scheme, which makes you wonder, “How many damn ways [?]”
Talking queen but holding [?]—that’s why I’m issuing out waitlists for the rent
Cracking your chin, leaving you with a permanent cleft

[Verse 5: Orko the Sycotik Alien]
My broken English of a beat-breaks underground overlord
Unemotional, unattached with an unorthodox angle
Walk with an angel of death. My breath control like Storm, the mutant X-Man
I don’t assimilate, so don’t associate my name with weakness in the chain—that don’t fit
Funny how MCs that wanna freestyle all night long
Don’t got enough composure and focus to write a dope song
I’d rather sock your mouth than say a dope line
No metaphors or similes—victory is mine