lirik lagu trade places – mr. voodoo
mr. voodoo – “trade places”
[emcee(s): mr. voodoo]
[producer(s): looie ii]
[intro: mr. voodoo]
yeah, yeah. you’re ‘bout to bare witness to a phenomenal thing. mr. voo, agu, hemlock. check it out. looie ii. yeah
[verse 1: mr. voodoo]
as i make my entrance
the theme to scarface plays—is it sin or repentance?
durags or kufis? is it smoke through the [?]
[?] knowing i’m like a car, dual suspension. my
mental engine fueled with cruel intentions of
keying big ambition, a key in the ignition on a
highway to heaven or h-ll? can’t tell. in this
endeavor, will fail or excel? yo, man, i can’t call
it though. word up, man, but wife be like
“you need to get off your -ss and get some dough.” i’m thinking
“i need to quit your -ss and get another ho.” picture me
making all these chips just to give her all my dough
the pimp-and-ho relationship all that i know
i’m a slave, so chains and whips all that i know. in beef
i’ma squeeze flame, empty the clips—that’s all that i know
getting brain, pasting her lips. man, you know i go
man, n-ggas know how i go. that’s my word, yo
[hook 1: mr. voodoo]
all my life, i dreamed of
the good life, good food, warm bed
shoes and clothes
money rolls and hoes
watches, chains, bracelets, ring [?]
[verse 2: mr. voodoo]
when we lacked
provisions, we hatched plots ‘til stacks in our vision
religiously sacrilegious, y’all catch shots of st-tches. if y’all
actions suspicious, mathematicians with biscuits
performing multiplication and addition while y’all perform
subtraction and division—yours and mine clash in a collision
your faction is splitting like fractions. it’s the brooklyn
tradition. that’s right, son. the bk way
it’s a tradition—you know how we do. yo. you know, like cow-
-boys in westerns, we come, disperse drugs and guns, take land, turn it
to slums. slugs for the ones that don’t learn to succ-mb. like
wendy, we got the heat. when it spin, it burn and get numb. when we
got to eat, fiends hit the kitchen, return with drugs. plot ourselves
on the street, get to pitching ‘til we earn some sums, squeezing
junkies with rotten t–th—this dish be churning in their gums. treat hoes
like flunkies: get ‘em extensions, perms, stick ‘em, and run. yeah
you know how we do: find ‘em, f-ck ‘em, and flee, you know?
[verse 3: mr. voodoo]
i’m your worst dream, the scariest black face you’ve seen
since willie horton’s face graced the screen. y’all got
nice homes? we got buildings like caverns, crime patterns
new york fried chicken spots, and y’all got restaurants and taverns
y’all got nice jobs, mom and dad gets you what you want
my mom slaved for all she had, we couldn’t get what we want. y’all got
first-rate health insurance and medical aid
all i got is first aid and medicaid. y’all taking drugs
for fun and recreation. we got so much pain in the brain
we’re self-medicating, using drugs for sedation. y’all teachers
care about y’all. our teachers fail us—they consider
us failure. they just promote us to get rid of us. cops
is y’all friends—y’all donate to the policemen funds. cops
is our enemies—we loathe and hate policemen with guns
‘cause all they do is evade and chase us, blast us, and raid and
invade our sp-ces—y’all don’t want to trade places
[hook 2: mr. voodoo]
if i could
trade places, i’d trade the streets for a stage
i’d take freedom instead of a holding cage. if i could
trade places, i’d take youth over age ‘cause the
older i get, the harder it is to hold this rage. wish i
could trade faces like travolta and cage, trade
a semi for a colt .45 and 12 gauge, a gun
for a blade, rhyme instead of crime as a way to get paid
my life for yours, is that a fair enough trade?
[verse 4: mr. voodoo]
do they see the sh-lls when the gun spit and spark? do they see
our h-ll on 106 & park and trl? i try to bring
‘em pain, but the pain we bring became an entertainment thing
‘cause all they see is hoes, clothes, cars, chains, and rings. y’all don’t
know the evil and strange things we’ve seen and did to maintain
blings, are willing to do what we do to reign kings. until
the burner stings, you lose your turn as king, but earn your wings. it come
to snitching? i’m tone-deaf—i never learned to sing
all the crimes, we’re susceptible to—y’all find acceptable
y’all dine and eat this sh-t up like it’s delectable
y’all having intellectual discussions and discourse
we say sh-t with burners if a crab diss yours
preachers steady telling us we’re cursed, misinterpreting
bible verse while he reaches for your purse. why in
the hood, next to every liquor store, there’s a church?
this sh-t is the worst
[hook 2: mr. voodoo]
if i could
trade places, i’d trade the streets for a stage
i’d take freedom instead of a holding cage. if i could
trade places, i’d take youth over age ‘cause the
older i get, the harder it is to hold this rage. wish i
could trade faces like travolta and cage, trade
a semi for a colt .45 and 12 gauge, a gun
for a blade, rhyme instead of crime as a way to get paid
my life for yours, is that a fair enough trade?
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