EPMD 2

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EPMD

EPMD is an American hip hop group from Brentwood, New York. The group's name is a concatenation of the members' name "E" and "PMD" or an acronym for "Erick and Parish Making Dollars", referencing its members, emcees Erick Sermon ("E" aka E Double) and Parish Smith ("PMD" aka Parish Mic Doc). The group has been active for 26 years (minus two breakups in 1993 and 1999), and is one of the most prominent acts in east coast hip hop. Diamond J, DJ K La Boss, and DJ Scratch were DJs for the group. more »

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Respectfully

Bucket on low like Erick and Parrish
Closed casket flow, all you niggas get deaded
They don't give you one single rose while you can smell it
So I pick from my own garden (garden)
Wanna go out in my garden like Godfather
Grandkids and a Rottweiler, got over the block trauma (yeah)
So what you sayin' nigga? You gots to chill (uh-huh)
Thinkin' you the truth, really you not for real (EPMD)
Back to back with' it, the hardest shit of the year (Nasir Jones)

(Remix)
EPMD, we back in business
Ain't nobody fuckin' with us, come to your senses (uh)
P is the second coming of God something to witness
Piece of shit fly on your head like Mike Pence's
We in the trenches
I'm mad, better yet, I'm on a rampage
My people can't even get minimum wage
F*ck a stimulus (uh)
Give me some interest (uh)
Give me a loan
Give me a home
Get me that land you owe me so I can roam
So when you trespass, blaow, one in your dome
Best wishes, ghost 'em like he Tommy
Ain't worried bout nothin' 'cause Hit Squad behind me

EPMD, we back in business
I visualize what is it, not what is isn't
We at the mafia table next to the kitchen
Eatin' Michelin Stars, countin' a million

Dun
I let it go for the family, meetin's at Cote in Miami
Them wine bottles on maggie, extra large
Sign up for my masterclass, Escobar
Feet up at Mets Stadium at my restaurant (yerr)
Tied in from AZ to Dave East, you know my thoughts get crazy
My teachers, they couldn't grade me
I know some Haitians in Dade County, got choppers in Haiti
She booked a flight to Colombia, made her body amazin'
Just to post it on Tumblr, this that "f*ck up the summer" shit
I don't care what you comin' with, me and Hit-Boy runnin' shit (runnin' shit)
Big gold, rope chains, but they flooded now (yeah, flooded now)
Pull up with the Ghost like a haunted house (haunted house)
Shit gettin' scary, blood on my hands like Carrie
Might walk through a cemetery to see where hip-hop is buried
I said it was dead, but it faked its death like Machiavelli
You see letters in red splatter, look like sauce and spaghetti

Yeah, ready?
EPMD, we're back in business (what?)
Livin' in cramped conditions, we'll give you ammunition
Stock them shelves, I got more shells like Taco Bell and I'm not gon' fail
I got no L's like Christmas, you don't wanna make the claws come out (nah)
Y'all should call yourselves Santa (why?) 'Cause none of y'all are real (nah)
Not a single one (like what?), Like a dollar bill (yeah)
It's like your bitch in appellate court, she's on a pill
We got her a bond and she'll
Never bail on me, not even outta jail
EPMD, but me, I gots no chills (you gotsa chill)
Just a lotta skrill
Lady, my paper's so crazy, I just tossed a mil' out the window
Of my mobile on the fuckin' freeway on the way here (yeah)
Like Rudolph and his homies when they pullin' the sleigh, yeah
That's a lot of bucks flyin' when I'm makin' it rain, dear
Green on me but no weed, shorty, just these, darling
A pocket full of pills, some are Tylenol 3s, prolly two or three Molly
So some are E which reminds me of rap summary, mami
My theme song, me and P
Always used to play that shit on repeat all day
So please call me "Big Daddy" (daddy)
Plus I got the 'caine and lean on me (yeah)
MCs, I'm eatin' you B-I-T-C-H's like tortilla chips
Me, I'm free of debt, yeah, green is on Chia Pet
This is the effects of my old neighborhood misery index
Poverty at it's peak, OCD and PTSD I guess
R.I.P. out to DMX, Stezo, E and Nipsey
Ecstasy and Prince Markie Dee, MF DOOM, I hit 50 via text
Told him that I love him 'cause I don't even know when I'ma see him next (nah)
Tomorrow could be your death (yeah, what?) (Bring that beat back)
Yeah, and this shit ain't for the faint
'Cause the brain's iller trained, killer, danger, deranged
And I drank all the DayQuil, I blank on the paper
Then wait 'til the page fill up
Hate spiller, shameful the strength of a pain pill or tranq'
I just pray for the day when I'm able to say that I'm placed
With the greats and my name's with the Kane's and the Wayne's and the Jay's
And the Dre's and the Ye's and the Drake's and the J Dilla's, Jada's, Cool J's
And the Ra's and amazin' as Nas is, and praise to the Gods of this
Shout to the golden age of hip-hop and the name of this song is 

EPMD, we back in business
I visualize what is it, not what is isn't
We at the mafia table next to the kitchen
Eatin' Michelin Stars, coutin' a million

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