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Fast Forward feat. DJ Stylewarz
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Time to Speak Now (Chorus by Bandog of Killa Instinct)
Now I begin with a devilish grin on my face.
I'm grim. Your name in the imprint
was the last hint that I needed and only by a thin,
narow margin you escape as I barge in.
The bellsound for the last round.
Your hell is my playground.
Time's running out and now you're running like a coward.
Your nightmares come true, comin' upon you,
yes it's me, Fast Forward.
Death you ordered? Yes, I'll serve you well.
From the underground I come with the sound of the knell.
Wind up Clockwork Orange for the wack mags
that stab our backs with stacks of Rap-reviews
that lack to represent our crews.
In fact, european acts always lose in this game of shame.
People dance at the Jams
but you never came to see us perform underground.
The hardcore thunderstorm lyricist,
vocalist beast is back out of the mist
of his past with nasty masterpieces.
Tales from the darkside that I write
won't get hyped in the press of the yellow type.
Now blood's gonna flow like ink
from the pen in your bloodstained hand,
tearing artists into pieces in a writer's cramp.
Now I'll slam your fucking amplifier.
Like a vampire you suck - our blood is your desire.
'Journalist clown we meet now! Time to speak now! Get it upfront now!'
Give me room! I fume with anger.
I'm stepping in full of gloom.
Recognize to die soon's your doom.
Yeah, pushed by the powers behind your kind of blind.
Aligned with the majors you favor oversea acts they signed.
Bullshit, fullpage featured.
I'm sick from the phoney intellectual shit you kick.
I can't admire your confusing style to write, you liar.
In essence it's nonsense, time to retire.
You caption photoes you don't know with names you don't know,
and if you were a pro you should investigate as well as possible.
But you slept and halfstepped
and wrote crap so get slapped with rap of a champ.
It's just my warm up lap. Ah shit!
See I'm the crazy type, mad in the head.
I'll snipe until you're dead or be the hitman at your sick-bed.
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No chance, and even if you got some friends...
they can visit you in hospital or now escort your ambulance.
I break limbs like a pitbull's powerfull jaw.
I got more rhymes of the worst a.
Horrortrips in written words.
Ultraviolent dreams in minutious precision.
Murder in miniature in this five minute vision.
Journalist get this, you're ranking top on my list.
I'm gonna cancel the mission of your division as a soloist, terrorist.
I got a bomb of album to blast,
one spark - like T-Rex in jurrasic Park
it will be ripping jeeps apart.
Too far ahead and far too hard, I got a style of my own.
In cologne I rock the microphone.
I had the Mad poetry, but you hushed up my 12' promo copy.
It doesn't matter whatever you're telling me,
it's written shit on toilet paper, I'll flush the WC.
Fooling me is to meet Mickey & Mallory.
I fuck you up not with a glock but with the lyrics I got.
Come to my shitty shows, I'll treat you like Natural Born Assholes.
Damn hazardous, you're best to stay away or pray,
cause next time I will shurely show no mercy.
Won't hesitate a minute to finish it.
And if I was promoter of this record I would never let you get it.
Instead of it I send you a one-way ticket
to meet the Dead-critic-society in the land of the dead.
I chose to close your eyelid,
cause you will never see the relevance
of keeping a good balance between Major acts and local talents.
As I hold your mag and read reviews you wrote boldly.
Fold it and take a swing - a coldblooded chop to the throat.
You lacks in authority to diss me, this is serious.
Rent-A-Car in Miami is just as dangerous, so get bust.
I'm not impressed at least by your presence or your past,
cause it won't last... what a mess!
My fist in the bloody mass that was a journalist's face.
Next one. It's done. He's gone.
His soul escapes my palm in a dead calm.
Sick psychotic I kill critics like a fanatic.
Get satanic ecstatic on your frenetic panic.
I choke your apologies in oe stroke.
Your Memories are drawn on the paving in bloodred and white chalk.
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