Album: The Moment of Truth
Track: Lip Service
Artist(s): Confession, Coach, McFade
Release: 2008
Pen Bleed Publishing (ASCAP)


Verse1: [Confession]
You’re talkin this and that, they’re talkin that and this
I’m bout to show yaLL what rappin is
You aint got a clue on whats happenin
Drop my pants, show you where u can plant your lips
I don’t even have to spit
This beat speaks for itself like I painted 20 canvases
You act like you’re damaging with that crap
Fucked like me on all girl campuses
I’m fire like a candlewick you cant blow out
You’re so weak so don’t speak like I’m No Doubt
I ride with the Phunkt House when I spit my shit
Proof, I don’t even need a sidekick
I spit these bars they get nervous
Like a hoe in church service
So you’re known for runnin your mouth; you’re just jealous
And we call that Lip Service!

Hook
Talkin this, talkin that- so I hit em with a bang your way
Don’t get nervous
Talkin that, talkin this- so I hit em with a bang your way
That’s lip service

Verse2: [COACH]
(uh oh)
Tongue in cheek, they say I oughta try it and diet
Cuz my rhymes obese, talk like they been waiting centuries
Givin sympathy crowdin around some empty seats
You say you bump, you’re just some tweets (raise up off of these)
My PH dream earned a PhD
In beats so P-H-U-N-K to the T
People got a degree in BS it seems
Got a helping hand; remains to be seen
13 sets of manos
Close like hermanos; rock the spots that we all go
Wonder why you get laughed at like some blonde jokes (ha ha)
Talk so much shit not even scope could cover the crap that comes out your throat
I’m holdin my breath, you should, I hope
I’m tired of listenin, seems the patterns open endness
Makes no difference; just different sentences
Evacuate the witnesses; my final point to implement (yea biotch)

Hook

Verse3: [McFade]
Here's my lip service, I got a slick surface
Suckas slippin, drippin wet, getting nervous
Some are just a bit relentless, some are just a bit disturbed
I'm a wordsmith; clever with the verb hit
Razor sharp tongue just to sever where the nerve ends
We rap like turbans, attack like serpents
pull back advances, we stab like lances; yaLL hand your chances
Couldn't hit the target or attempt to make your matches
You're fake with whackness, cant wait to hate the fattest
The way they make the static; got us pullin out the vocal banger automatic
We've had it up to here with pathetic synthetic
Attempts to get hectic
Incinerating all the imitations; instigating inflammation
Instant intuition into every situation that we're facin
I know they love to hate the way we make the phunkt
But of course they're only comin with the force of a paper cut.

Hook