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    Masta Ace / Lyrics

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    "Saturday Nite Live" Lyrics

    Masta Ace

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    "Live from New York it's Saturday Nite!" (Scratched 4x)

    Ayo kid for years I've been into rap
    Writing funky rhymes to get my name on the map
    And by now I know I'm hitting
    Cause I say a rhyme and girls be like, "Uh no he didn't"
    I'm so nonchalont, word to my uncle and my aunt
    I serve MC's like a restaurant
    It ain't where you're from it's where you're at
    So in that case your butt better step like a frat
    Cause juice I got a lot of vaoprs
    While you gotta quit, I'm always rolling with Umdada, shit
    When I deliver I make you shiver
    If a guy try to front, I have to show him I'm the problem giver
    Girlfriend you're gonna be in bad shape
    If you expect Uneek to take you shopping like a demo tape
    I'll tell your brother Jack to be Nimble
    Cause if you want beef we can clash like a cymbal
    You need to stop all the yelling and the cursing
    I know it foul, he couldn't house a homeless person
    We don't cuddle in the Eyceurokk huddle
    While verse is subtle, and then we wet you like a puddle
    One lyric from the gut, so what?
    You want to strut like you're bad and then you might get had
    Yeah it's cool, it's gonna be all right
    Cause live from New York it's Saturday Nite

    "Live from New York it's Saturday Nite!" (Scratched 4x)

    [Masta Ace]
    It's the offbeat, on beat, man with the mostest
    Like Hostess, I bake MC's and oh and you knows this
    So 1 2 3 4, for whom the bell is tolling
    I'm rolling with Umdada and I'm um holding my swollen
    And doing the project dance from back in the days
    It's the Master, the Ace and yo, I'm black and it pays
    So bust the move on the mad offbeat tip and
    It's the dopest, but can you cope this, by far the hippest
    Hat on sideways or backward, I knew a funky track would
    Open up the ears of the black hood
    I'm not Ralph Malph, Richie, or the Fonz
    I'm no joke, I school that ass like St. John's
    Some come get a little bit, hit hard like a rock and
    Open up the door cause I'm knocking
    Ready or not, here I come in a hurry and
    It's Masta Ace, Steady Pace, Paula Perry and
    Eyceurokk with the 4 Building storm and
    Welcome to the Bates Motel, my name is Norman
    I got the mad knife, I'm mad mean
    I killed mad crews, I read Mad magazine
    So break it down for the heads with the dreads
    For the baldies and the fades, for the blues and the reds
    Here comes the crazy drunken style, take a swigga
    As I take my finger of the trigga for the Lord Digga

    [Lord Digga]
    Lord Digga, the microphone mutilator
    With the hardcore data to mash motherfuckers like potatoes
    I get a load of a punk who tried to diss me
    You wanna know why? Cause I spit on spectators
    My style is rough, ruck, and rugged on the ill tip
    Blowing the fuck up, sending pussies looking for microchips
    Mad mad styles get flipped when the chordless gets gripped
    Not a gang member but I got Tales from the Crip
    I'm mad mad funky like Silk
    Take a sniff of my ass crack, motherfuckers stay wack
    As my pockets get fat like and elephant
    I'm far from benevolent, I'm up your ass for the hell of it
    I'm catching wreck on your record or cassette tape
    Now I can't wait to catch motherfuckers that slept late
    I flip the hardcore shit so little punks you know
    That's how it goes on Saturday Nite

    "Live from New York it's Saturday Nite!" (Scratched 4x)

    Eyceurokk consists of three:
    First is Rokk Deisel, my brother Uneek, and then there's me, nigga
    I wear the orange and the black cap, black and orange jersey on my back
    Baddest nigga in the pack
    And I work to get my loot, shoot
    Huh, I'm turning heads like a handicapped prostitute
    Son you gotta belive me
    That I'm a be "Rockin you, rockin you" but I'm not Davert Leavy
    I'm hitting rappers til they stagger
    And if he's a bragger, I'm gonna watch him fall like Niagra
    Ooops, oh, time for him to go
    Take him to the morgue, put a tag on his toe
    Not the type you can play a game with
    Fuck around, look at all the niggas that I came with
    Stop dissing, there will be no tomorrow
    You'll feel sorrow, I'm knocking niggas down like Mark Bavarro
    Cause rap is not a toy, if you're in it for the bones
    You'll be Home Alone just like that little white boy
    Master Eyce is on the way
    And live from New York I'm catching wreck on a Saturday

    "Live from New York it's Saturday Nite!" (Scratched 4x)
    This song was submitted on January 3rd, 2005 and last modified on October 18th, 2016.
    Copyright with Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group.
    Written by Courtney Mcfadden, Duval A. Clear, Larry Mizell, Reginald D. Ellis, Sean Mcfadden.
    Lyrics licensed by LyricFind.

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