DESCRIPTION:
Grip Grand spits on the Popular Demand (Popeye's) instrumental. Download the studio version at:

http://gripgrand.bandcamp.com/track/popular-demand

Behind the scenes footage. I was rappin', figured I'd tape it for posterity. Sorry about the crazy angle--this video was filmed by my cat. Just kidding...it was my neighbor's cat.

For free Grip Grand mixtapes and more info, go to:
www.routinefly.com
www.gripgrand.com
www.facebook.com/gripgrand
www.myspace.com/gripgrand

If you don't see what you're looking for, search the past archives...lots of free music, videos, and more!

Lyrics:

Yo, the beat hit 'em in the gut, call it slapboxin'
I spit broken glass, you can call it trash talkin'
My lyrics bang on the block like a rap auction
Do the opposite of front on Grip—back off him
I'm higher than a rocket that astronauts blast off in
A perfect storm of rap, it doesn't happen that often
Whether hurricane, rain, sleet, snow, I spaz on 'em
Hang a sucker on the wall, spray my fuckin' tag on him
What a drag, he's so bad that I can only bag on him
Heavy flow, lemme drop a fuckin' bowling bag on 'em
Any MC who step, yo, we prob'ly smash on him
Get broke, left the show with a body cast on him
Call the coroner, get yourself a body bag from him
It'll save me the trouble
These lames need to hustle
It's a struggle in the underground, we may need a shovel
When the flow's like a hammer, they can't even touch you
Got a heaven-sent style, so I may be above you
Over your head, like I was floatin' eight feet above you
Bringin' greatness to my state, if you ain't see then fuck you
I'm an animal, an ape-man, the king of the jungle
Rhymin' on beats, each and every rhyme I release
Is so dangerous, rappers need to sign a release
I'm on the streets in the form of a man with the mind of a beast
I eat a rhymer, crack his spine in my teeth
Long live the president, but better yet would be if all of mine were deceased
Money aint talkin' like a mime at a speech
I got a rhyme book thats bottomless, deep
I told 'em I was a freak
See a psychiatrist same time every week
And Rec-League came to play, it's game time every week
Every hour, every minute, every second at least
I'm on the clock steady deliverin' consecutive heat
Time for some action, don't wait for the director to speak
Respect to my team
The microphones a wreckin' machine
I tear the roof off while you poppin' champagne on some Evelyn King
Well that's a shame, you should let a young veteran sing
You think you fly? I'ma de-feather your wings
I'm not a puppet, I severed the strings
They say I'm clever with words
I say I'm better at dismemberin' herbs
I'm out for the cheddar and each and every treasure that I ever deserved
I'm not a customer, I'll never be served
I'm like a hundred steps ahead of all the suckers so forget 'em, they scurred
Go back to Kansas or wherever they were
I told 'em don't quit your day job
Not sayin' I work harder than God
But, in the Bible, even God took a day off
Cutbacks and layoffs
They outside the key and couldn't even get a J off
Assassinate 'em like 8-Off
So raise off the turf like a plane when it takes off
I ain't got a hockey mask, I'll still take your face-off
Your rap needs a map, G, the whole shit is way off
No pay-off, you lost the qualifier, no play-offs
Hey, boss, you tryna beat Grip? Well, your chances gettin' slim, bitch, like Kate Moss,
Fitness, and weight-loss
I rip this in half and I dip it in steak sauce
Eatin' up rappers like Pac-Man done ate dots
I told 'em bounce like a bank shot
I'm real like house shoes and a tank top
You fake like a stage-prop
There ain't a style that I ain't got locked
Im goin' viral, I hope you got your inbox blocked
'Cuz every file I attach,
Is like an arsonist is lightin' a match
So many hits, they keep rewritin' my stats
My shit is dope, and you can smoke it in a pipe like its crack
You can shoot it in your vein and say you like every track
Theres a computer in my brain that's from the future and it's writin' my rap
So drop the motherfuckin' mic, 'cuz I'm back