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MF Doom Quotes & Sayings
30 entries tagged including 1 subtopics.
Last updated May 2020
MF Doom Topics
Retarded in real life, on the mic Rain Man, stand close to his main man like a chain gang.
The old god with the all gold gold card, when hes on a roll its no holds barred - no lard, in the record game on some bogard, so many nekkid dames might blow his whole wad.
I had this style ever since I was a child, I got this other style I ain't flip in a while, it goes. . . Pure scientific intelligence, with one point of relevance. MC's whose styles need Velamints. And once the smoke clears, tell 'em it's, The Super motherfucking Villain, nigga came through raw like the elements.
That was me on stage, I just lost a bunch of weight.
Maybe give em thanks from the steel grade shank hold that, put the mic down ya lucks up, dont let it touch the ground and shut the door, buckle up its the law. Fool stay calm like you got pulled over with the raw.
And the winner for the ninth time in a row, DOOM- I owe it to a well refined rhyme flow, now if you dont mind, dough, find me where the limes grow, with a fine dime, fill in the blanks.
DOOM was always known to keep the best girls backs bent, some say its the eyes, some say the accent, a lotta guys wonder where they stacks went, I call her thunder thighs, with the fatty swolla, only mess wit high rollas, do what daddy told her, no matter the city she with me to do the thang thang, work in the coochie, hooptie chitty chitty bang bang .
Joker rhymes like the is you just happy to see me trick, classical slapstick rappers need chapstick, a lot of them sound like they in a talent show, so I give them something to remember like the Alamo.
Villian hold the mic like he's mean and his tummy hurt, in a clean pair of ripped jeans and a bummy shirt, wondering would you clap ya hands if he was friendly, dapper dan dipped in pretend to be fendi, and gold selling, no telling, slap a fan hand down, tell em no yelling. DOOM all capitals no trick spelling, got what it takes to get it through your thick melon.
Own his own throne the boss like King Koopa, on the microphone he floss the ring (supa), average MCs is like a TV blooper, MF Doom, hes like DB Cooper, out with the moolah.
By the way, I reup on bad dreams, bag up screams in 50s, be up on mad schemes that heat shop like Jiffy (pop pop), in an instant, get smoked like winston cigarettes. Hoes get ripped off like Nicorette .
One lonely evening alone home, end up with carpal tunnel syndrome, here I am don't forget the heavy back aches, grown and living off of little Debbie snack cakes, supposed to be checking e-mails, all I got is messages from ass naked females.
Train a sane brain to an insane train of thought, on the campaign trail he came to gain ya support, charge cash for an autograph, say some shit to make ya daughter laugh then slaughter the ass.
He plots shows like robberies, in and out, 123 nobodies pleased, run the cash and you wont get a wet sweatshirt, the mic is the shotty, nobody move nobody gets hurt, bring the heat like the boy done gone to war, he came in the door like everybody on the floor, a whole strings of jobs like we on tour, every night, on a score coming to ya cornerstore.
His own biggest fan and got a fan base as big as Japan, uh ... yeah ... and? All hail the king! And give him three cheers, fam, like, hip hip hooray! Do his thing for the little kids like Sling Blade To the grave, put in work like a slave. On how to flip scripts on the dipstick brigade. Rock 'em like "Su-su-sudio" played, back when we used to rock the shag, no fade. This skilled trade like a tailor made suede. Hit the studio....and I'm paid!!!
He keep his hoes in check, sends em out to get glows from off frozen necks, tells em take his clothes leave him posin nekkid for real, better yet, get him for the check off the record deal, find out where he keep the tec and the blue steel, make sure for extra wreck let em know how you feel and while hes runnin down to all star weekend to ball, Im comin with the U-Haul.
You tellin me, I try to act broke, jealousy the number one killer among black folk, fellas be under some type of spell like crack smoke, ghetto cinderellas lead em right to ya stack, loc.
Yeah you know it, growin up too fast, showing up to class with Moet in a flask, asked the teacher, if he leaved would he pass, his girls all alone, he's trying get the ass.
You could find him in the pub with the grub stains, chuggin on a small tub of pain to his bugged brain.
Seal the deal with the shakin of a hand, And peoples catchin feelings like its Making of the Band, Villain have ya fake mans quakin in his Vans, When they hear the jam fans breakdancin in the stands.
I Hate You
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