Mission Statement Lyrics - Chris Webby
See, I’ve been quiet for a minute, now these bitches think I’ve lost my sound,
Everybody chill, I’ve been getting my business off the ground.
Finally successful, but to you that means I sold out?
Well fuck it, let’s remind these people so there’s really no doubts.
Webby’s still the beast that he’s always been and I rap hard,
So check my wifi signal, yo, I still got mad bars.
Whippin’ like it’s Nascar, still no one can touch me,
All you fucking pound puppies never stepping to a Husky.
Rapping for Connecticut, stomping on you, midgets,
Smoking weed, taking pills, fuck it, where the whippets?
No one could ever do it like I did it,
Spit so big you gotta right click-it, scroll down and zip it.
I’m Santa Claus’ misfit, rolling with a thick bitch,
Rappers out here ollieing. Me? I triple kickflip.
Murder any beat and leave the listeners to witness
Jason Statham even scared to put my name up on his hit list.
I watch these record labels all assembla a full,
Roster of rappers whose skill levels are questionable.
They have a hit single or two, then disappear into obscurity.
Me? I pay my dues that’s why these mother fuckers heard of me.
Haters getting madder now, wishing I would beat it,
All because I fucked their girl on the top of my Tempurpedic.
Huh, sprinkle sugar on the Bible, sweet Jesus,
Punch line pros leaving rappers with their teeth chipped.
Webby been a genius, like I told ‘em previous,
Usain Bolt on a track can’t compete with this.
The state of hip hop now is strategic tragic.
Turn the radio on, what do you know some more whack shit.
Except for a select feq, ‘cause if you nice then you nice.
You got bars? Salute, I respect you.
‘cause half these cats rapping nowadays are from a test tube,
A puppet to the label that they’re soon to be in debt to.
Me? I’m fucking meant for this, download it and rendered it,
Really in the game now, I’m through with my apprentice shit.
Kids these days don’t even listen to the sentences,
They bumping Gucci but don’t even know who Jimi Hendrix is.
Crank a Drake song while they cruising in their mom’s Jeep,
But never heard of Big L, Rakim or Mobb Deep.
That’s why I’m here to spit crack, kids blowning up without paying homage to the legends?
I ain’t with that.
This shit is crazy, man, it’s depressing, really.
The Game of Smoke and Mirrors, never let deception get me.
I keep my guard up, so if they come and step to Chris,
These wannabe rappers gonna get ate like it’s 7:50.
Nobodies diss me? Fuck, so what?
They just want me to use their name so that their buzz goes up.
So keep yapping it, pretending we got personal beef
Like I’m gonna lose sleep? Shit, I never heard of you B
We took some Big and some Pac and we mixed it up in a pot
And Eminem is what we got, so is it really a shock
That now another Caucasian rapper sticks out of the flock
That’s got the lyrical capacity to level a block.
I’m still chilling playing Nitendo, faded off the Benzos,
Fucking these hoes. You just stuck up in the friend zone,
Your girl texting me, ending with an XO, fuck your Emojis, let me see them breasts, yo.
I’m Lou Ferrigno, about to Hulk smash this,
Webby the pick of the liter like digging for cat shit.
Trying to be a rapper nowadays is on some fad shit.
Youngins getting tattered hoping they’ll be in the mag pics.
Thinking all you gotta do is learn a couple rap tricks,
Buy some snapbacks and mad kicks to get your swag sick.
Make a YouTube account, voila! That’s it,
The next big thing overnight like magic.
But Katniss, only the strong survive here.
Listen, dear, like Hunger Games, every single year,
People rise to the occasion or they fumble it clear
The only guarantee is that you’ll see the death of some careers, huh.
Been on my underdog shit for a while,
While more white kids come popping up, jocking my style.
And I’m still unsigned, staying hungry on the grind now.
Been rapping longer than some of the fans I got have been alive now.
Lie down, ‘cause I’ll be coming for you if you stepping to me,
It’s my time now, you can’t interfere with this shit it was destined to be.
Rapping the C.T. New England shit, tri-state too we bring it bitch,
Stuck within this game while most people would rather sing than spit.
Can you believe this shit? The game’s fucked, man,
‘cause all these people only in it for the buck, man,
Another mixtape, all are free,
‘cause when Webby’s in the booth you know it’s Bars On Me, yeah.
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