THE CALLING LYRICS

TESTIMONIAL YEAR

(M. Lambert/D. Smith/B. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions.
Written and performed by M. Lambert and D. Smith. Scratches by DJ Debris.

Verse 1: Suffa

Let me introduce myself, raise them beers,
Suffa MC, been doing this for more than ten years,
Ever since I was a youngster, I brought the funk for,
The love, and for the party people to get drunk to,
Since back in the day we’ve been the major crew,
When I step on the stage it’s like déjà vu,
Years of performing, years of practice,
Respect from my peers, my girls tears on the mattress,
Every time that we went on tour,
And she was left behind feeling insecure,
But she needn’t worry; I wasn’t chasing a girl to rock right,
I was chasing the warm glow of a spotlight,
City after city, state to state,
We were just three mates rocking beats and breaks,
So if you made it to a Hoods show to check the style,
You get much respect, you made it all worthwhile.

Verse 2: Pressure

Let me introduce myself, raise them beers,
Pressure MC, been doing this for more than ten years,
It’s been a long road I’m glad I stayed on track,
A dream of making raps, and getting played on wax,
It seems that faking jacks want to cause my demise,
Along the way wouldn’t give me play but couldn’t stop the course of my rise,
Now of course the sky’s the limit, we fly get with it,
You ain’t underground, that’s because you dig it,
It took infinite skills and hard work to get this far jerk,
Look me in the face, now I’m the one who wears a smart smirk,
It wasn’t all negative, took the good with the bad,
Us falling will never happen, like catching the Hoods in drag,
In orderly fashion I’m thanking those who supported me,
Wouldn’t be where I’m standing if they hadn’t have fought for me,
From a nothing rep, now we live busting sets,
So if you own a Hoods album you get nuff respect.

Verse 3: Suffa

Let me introduce myself, raise them beers,
Suffa MC, been doing this for more than ten years,
We’ve been through a lot to perfect this art,
When Next left the group it near broke my heart,
But then Debris stepped up as the DJ,
A super team spearheaded by PJ,
Chasing dreams like Fats chasing punani,
It’s all about the culture, never been about the money,
But we had to watch people trying to take advantage,
Of us, trying to damn near rob us,
We got slowed down by dodgy contract offers,
But it would take a nation of millions to stop us,
We got our propers, paid our dues in triplicate,
Ripping it, till other crews were insignificant,
I’ve stayed true, never made myself a hypocrite,
Trust me, I’m wise I got the certificate.

Verse 4: Pressure

Let me introduce myself, raise them beers,
Pressure MC, been doing this for more than ten years,
Yeah we made it far, through beats pumping and flows,
My bro Rated R props for being the drunkest at shows,
And support from my mates who fought for the stakes,
Of Oz Hip Hop, props to record stores, I bought from their crates,
You see talking it takes less than walking the stakes,
So put your money where your mouth is and stop flaunting as fakes,
For those who stuck by me over time I put yours over mine,
Don’t have to speak your names you know my mind,
In this simple game of respect it’s given as it’s taken,
Been given props, now respected tracks is what I’m making,
Shouts to everyone I met on tour,
It’s our Hip Hop ladies and gentlemen let’s keep it pure,
So here’s another LP from the Hoods to crank to,
Hope you dig the rest of this album people I got to thank you.

THE CALLING

(D. Smith/M. Lambert/B. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions.
Written and performed by D. Smith and M. Lambert. Scratches by DJ Debris.

Verse 1: Pressure

For many years I was seeking asylum, in the bleakest environments,
Rhyme possessed me, while many started speaking retirement,
So as I rose they all fell in the fashion of yelling and trashing,
For what it’s worth there was no quelling the passion,
Their love was dead, I was writing papes but getting fuck all said,
So I polished my shit until my knuckles bled,
Treading thin ice and all I caught were chills,
Sacrifices were appetisers, mics instead of meals,
This hand was mine, so I played it until I made it expand my mind,
And burned my name into the sands of time,
Then rhyme gave me strength to less avail,
Got used to these backstabbers, so now I sleep on a bed of nails,
I never fail, but turning tides are moving too slow,
I swam the depths of every ocean just to prove I could flow,
So from the cradle to the grave, turntable to Holy Father,
I swear I didn’t slit my wrists I got the Hip Hop stigmata.

Chorus

You got to pray to Hip Hop almighty,
We bless the microphone nightly,
Open up the lyric from inside me,
It’s our calling that’s why we say,
You got to pray to Hip Hop almighty,
We bless the microphone nightly,
Open up the lyric from inside me,
It’s our calling that’s why we say…

Verse 2: Suffa

This be calling, we could never be fake,
Thanks to Hip Hop I got a bed in every state,
And without it I’d roam the city with no purpose,
Without the underground I’m a clown without circus,
I flip verses, you feeling me? Abilities,
My currency with which I buy credibility,
Facilities were built just to be torn down,
Till the wheels fall off, and my pencils all worn down,
Till death comes to collect his debt, I’ll wreck the set,
When heads check in retrospect, I’ll get respect,
Cos I did what I was called to do,
It’s Hip Hop, I did it all for you,
We true to this, got clout on turntables getting played,
We doing this without a label not getting payed,
So from the cradle to the grave, microphone to retirement home,
I’ll be on stage; I’ll never leave the rhyme alone.

Chorus

You got to pray to Hip Hop almighty,
We bless the microphone nightly,
Open up the lyric from inside me,
It’s our calling that’s why we say,
You got to pray to Hip Hop almighty,
We bless the microphone nightly,
Open up the lyric from inside me,
It’s our calling that’s why we say…

Verse 3: Suffa & Pressure

Either we’re all out, or we’re all in,
And if we fall out, then we’re all falling,
It’s the calling; it’s what I hear in my sleep,
It’s that shiver up my spine when I’m feeling the beat,
It’s that fear of defeat, the need to better myself,
It’s the culture; it’s not about spreading the wealth,
It’s forgetting the time when you’re perfecting a rhyme,
It’s every drop of sweat that I shed getting mine.

Chorus

You got to pray to Hip Hop almighty,
We bless the microphone nightly,
Open up the lyric from inside me,
It’s our calling that’s why we say,
You got to pray to Hip Hop almighty,
We bless the microphone nightly,
Open up the lyric from inside me,
It’s our calling that’s why we say…

DUMB ENOUGH

(D.Smith/M.Lambert/B.Francis/S.W.McKenny/B.Withers) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions & DJ Debris for take away productions. Written and performed by D.Smith and M.Lambert. Scratches by DJ Debris. Contains elements of “Who Is He And What Is He To You”, written by Stanley Wayne McKenny and Bill Withers; Published by Songs of Universal, Inc./Interior Music Corp. (BMI). Used by Permission. All Rights Reserved.

Verse 1: Pressure

This is recreation, set your station, and get your place in,
A comfy seat, pump this beat, Pressure will set the occasion,
For your entertainment I work hard on my flows,
This scene is full of falling MCs I wear hardhats to shows,
And every Hip Hop head’s a critic, cos some hit the stage hard,
But couldn’t get these assholes open at a gay bar,
It’s a comedy festival; they’re so unintelligible,
Can’t work out if they got peas for brains, or they’re just vegetables,
It’s sounds pathetic as me being anorexic,
I do damage like a paralytic, paramedic with no anesthetic,
Girls shake my hand, guys want to hug me it’s a worry,
If I forgot your name I’m sorry, you’re probably pretty ugly,
I’m scared of getting old, so when it comes D-Day,
I’m a thank you all for dissing me, then say something clichéd,
And when I’m dead and buried I want you in ‘Life Be In It’ shirts,
At my cemetery singing…

Chorus

Hilltop Hoods and we’re coming up,
So step on up if you’re dumb enough,
Hilltop Hoods and we’re coming up,
So step on up if you’re dumb enough.

Verse 2: Suffa

People chant the chorus when they hear it; yo it’s on,
You rise like a tsunami, when you feel it; it’s the bomb,
I’ll make origami of your lyrics,
Geez that’s good Suffa,
What is it? It’s a swan,
I got the shit to bomb MCs back to the Stone Age,
On stage, I’ll get you out your seat quicker than road rage,
I take them all from beat jackers to backpackers,
With tracks fat as fuck, I ran amok on these wack rappers,
But then it happened. What happened? What I thought could,
I screwed all these MCs, yeah? Then it got awkward,
It got weird didn’t it?
You don’t wanna see me anymore,
Oi Suffa you can’t sing, yeah I can’t even hum a tune,
But I make this crowd bounce like bedsprings on a honeymoon,
Come and do your best but it’s still not good enough,
Suff is rough I’m with the…

Chorus

Hilltop Hoods and we’re coming up,
So step on up if you’re dumb enough,
Hilltop Hoods and we’re coming up,
So step on up if you’re dumb enough.

Verse 3: Suffa & Pressure

From the hilltops in the Andes, to the Rockies in Canada,
We infecting mics like Tommy did Pamela,
They gassed in the head, that trash you said was pure jealousy,
Like ‘Left Foot, Right Foot’s an invitation to step to me,
You’re losing you footing, you need some Velcro on them Shell toes,
In fights I’m throwing rhymes, in rhyme fights I’m throwing elbows,
I move a crowd like stolen goods, so try and get a hold when,
You couldn’t move your shit with a diarrhetic colon,
I already told them, the hills are impassable, impossible,
If the truth hurts; this rhyme will put you in hospital,
Break it down like a molecule, we burning like fossil fuel,
I’m something of a phenomenon – I’m phenomenal,
These rappers they don’t wanna fuck with Suff,
You better turn off your mic, unless you’re dumb enough,
Cos we’re running up on stage from night until the sun is up,
So run amok you’re with the…

Chorus

Hilltop Hoods and we’re coming up,
So step on up if you’re dumb enough,
Hilltop Hoods and we’re coming up,
So step on up if you’re dumb enough,
Hilltop Hoods and we’re coming up,
So step on up if you’re dumb enough,
Hilltop Hoods and we’re coming up,
So step on up if you’re dumb enough.

ILLUSIONARY LINES

(D. Smith/M. Lambert/B. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions.
Written and performed by D. Smith. Scratches by DJ Debris.

Verse 1: Pressure

I once had time on my hands, but now handling time,
Is coping with this life cycle and the mandatory grind,
My sanity’s fine, just falling short of stamina I’m,
Searching for some food for thought to feed this famine of mind,
And when I’m stagnant I rhyme, it helps the night turn to day,
I churn my way through this nine to five and urban decay,
Believe me it’s bleak, and though the city breathes in its sleep,
It’s just a paddock, ain’t no where a shepherds leading these sheep,
Now most prefer a covered up lie than the truth naked,
The truth is ugly like cellulite; please don’t publicly parade it,
I hate it but to escape it would be luck on fluke,
I feel like I’m a dope beat but I’m stuck on loop,
But that’s my life cycle; freedom means everything to me,
And face value’s got us believing everything we see,
So if our eyes tell us lies the truth is we’re blind,
So keep on walking straight and narrow down illusionary lines.

Verse 2: Pressure

I once had respect for this game, but now this game of respect,
Is sold to the highest bidder with some fame and a cheque,
Now any layman can get respect without breaking his neck,
Paying dues, time these crews started paying some debt,
It ain’t lights and cameras, personalities on set,
Distorting realities in their context,
With no originality concepts,
Who gives a fuck about a salary; this ain’t a popularity contest,
Cos Hip Hop ain’t faking for ends,
Hip Hop ain’t,
Fading with trends,
it ain’t rich kids playing with pens,
It ain’t the clothes on your back, or the label on them,
It’s where you’re at, so I say it again,
It’s just my life cycle; music means everything to me,
It’s just a fashion show, nah; don’t believe everything you see,
Cos if our eyes tell us lies the truth is we’re blind,
So keep on walking straight and narrow down illusionary lines.

Verse 3: Pressure

That’s just my life cycle, nothing matters but setting me free,
Because my freedom and Hip Hop be meaning everything to me,
Now face values and fashions empower everything we be,
Believing everything we hear, and everything we see,
So if our eyes tell us lies, then we usually find,
Our visions cluttered by this scutter so the truth is we’re blind,
It’s just poison food for thought for these delusionary minds,
So stop walking straight and narrow down illusionary lines.

TOMORROW WILL DO

(D. Smith/M. Lambert/B. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions.
Written and performed by D. Smith and M. Lambert. Scratches by DJ Debris.

Verse 1: Pressure

Be careful what you wish for; be cautious what you seek,
Women are like opportunities; grasp them when they’re in reach,
All that glitters is gold, and sold for green locally,
Life’s a blind struggle that’s why fate keeps tripping over me,
With fines, debts and warrants trust me when I say they serve you,
What you don’t know can’t hurt you; so not knowing you is a virtue,
It’s a fast food world; I fear that I’m a die gluttoning,
But life is like John Howard, too short to waste time worrying,
I moved from my parentals, used to lose it in the mental,
Now I’m using my potential, for bruising instrumentals,
I’m a bad natured human, bound to stagnate in ruin,
Till these man made delusions catch a bad case of bruising,
We’re all drunk philosophers so give it time now,
There’s a fine line between a smile and a frown, Yeah? It’s called an eyebrow,
If measurement of ones worth was one word of testament,
I’m done keeping it real I keep it relevant.

Chorus

Life is a road, full of turn-offs, short sprints and long runs,
We’ll deal with it as it comes,
If I lose my way I’ll follow you,
Cos today’s like yesterday I guess tomorrow will do,
Life is a road, full of turn-offs, short sprints and long runs,
We’ll deal with it as it comes,
If I lose my way I’ll follow you,
Cos today’s like yesterday I guess tomorrow will do.

Verse 2: Suffa

I’ve been an out and out loudmouth since my youth,
I’m generous with words but selfish with the truth,
I’d never say some things on my mind anyway,
Cos ideas are like cars, they get stolen everyday,
And when I do speak women call me a creep,
Ladies chivalry’s not dead it’s on the couch where you made it sleep,
I gets deep without the meaningful,
Mimed a rhyme to a blind man, he said ‘Boy now I’ve seen it all’,
The worlds an ugly place filled with beautiful women,
And people who love music but lack suitable rhythm,
What a computer will give ‘em an instrument won’t,
It’s called Hip Hop, guess what we’re the industry joke,
But Hip Hop followers, follow us till your sorrow is gone,
And be strong cos tomorrow it’s on,
We ain’t no beat nick, weak trip, kids on the sneak tip,
We spit deep shit all of life’ secrets.

Chorus

Life is a road, full of turn-offs, short sprints and long runs,
We’ll deal with it as it comes,
If I lose my way I’ll follow you,
Cos today’s like yesterday I guess tomorrow will do,
Life is a road, full of turn-offs, short sprints and long runs,
We’ll deal with it as it comes,
If I lose my way I’ll follow you,
Cos today’s like yesterday I guess tomorrow will do,
Life is a road, full of turn-offs, short sprints and long runs,
We’ll deal with it as it comes,
If I lose my way I’ll follow you,
Cos today’s like yesterday I guess tomorrow will do,
Life is a road, full of turn-offs, short sprints and long runs,
We’ll deal with it as it comes,
If I lose my way I’ll follow you,
Cos today’s like yesterday I guess tomorrow will do.

LAYING BLAME

(M. Lambert/D. Smith/B. Francis) Produced by DJ Debris for Take Away Productions.
Written and performed by M. Lambert and D. Smith. ORGAN BY EVAN WHETTER. Scratches by DJ Debris.

Verse 1: Suffa

I gave birth to half these styles, you should pay me rhyme support,
Like Billy Jean suing Michael Jackson for child support,
Rhyme is thought, what is it? Lethal,
Damn you’ll get hurt,
Cos I excel like the tag on my shirt,
I’ll have these rappers easing back, rhyme with a swagger,
Feed your girl aphrodisiacs and hide your Viagra,
If pain was diabetes, rhyme would be my insulin,
I’m taking out the insolent in an instant when,
They bring the rhyme; I’ll battle if you wanna tussle,
A single line can turn that fatty matter into muscle,
You stagnate, while my rhymes circulate like rumors,
Your living proof that god has a sense of humor,
I’m butter made from the cream that came from the crop,
I’ll move the mountain to Mohammed scream my name from the top,
And proclaim what I got, boy, so give me headroom,
These clubs are full of more toys than spoilt kids bedrooms,
When I’m on stage I might lose my breath,
Cos I got so much heart that there’s no room in my chest,
Left for lungs, yes the best is yet to come,
My rhymes like a hand around your neck,
Constricting your breathing like snakebites and beestings,
I’m all up in these assholes faces like G-Strings,
I searched the world for opposition but I fear the,
Only competition I found was in a mirror.

Verse 2: Pressure

When Pressure steps to the batters plate you salivate, known to captivate,
I have to break new barriers like when a chaste nun masturbates,
If one more critic asks me what I do, I’ll slap them mate,
And tell them I’m a rapper as I strap her up in gaffer tape,
Loudmouths make me wanna flip,
MCs only dream they got a grip,
And wake up with their hand on their dick,
Honest, if they ride the nuts I tell them get off me,
Cos I’m unstable like a cradle bridge, so don’t cross me,
I’m highly explosive; you’re a child playing with matches,
I break rappers you give hairline fractures,
These actors keep it real? You’re really wack it’s fact,
You spit one-liners while I spit the finest chapters,
Perhaps it’s time to retire the mic,
Like the Bulls should have done son, cos no-one wants to be like,
That anymore, cos nowadays you’re taken on a fantasy tour,
Of coke, guns and gold when they’re actually poor,
Factually flawed, yet entertaining,
I guess it how far we’re willing to go to satisfy a craving,
Make them swallow their tongues like epileptics,
Then I’ll respect it, I come clean as if my lube was antiseptic,
So blow me, you still couldn’t rhyme fresh,
I’m on a higher level of divineness, so call me your highness,
There’s only three things that are certain in life, death, taxes and Hilltop Hood working the mic.

SIMMY AND THE GRAVYSPITTER

(M. Lambert/D. Smith/B. Francis/A. Simmons) Written and performed by M. Lambert & A. Simmons.
Beatbox by Simplex.

Verse 1: Suffa

You won’t get far little punk cos I bust pure rhymes,
I tear up bars like a drunk on a bus tour I’m,
The hideous, insidious, super fly Suffa,
Ignorance is bliss and you’re a happy motherfucker,
Sucker rock a set; I’m like Bobba Fett with intellect,
I’m everywhere you go like porno on the Internet,
You don’t wanna step, trust me, you been warned,
You don’t wanna play leapfrog with a unicorn,
Leave you torn; you couldn’t battle me with that lame rhyme,
You couldn’t come hard with two women at the same time,
You walk in the club dipped in jewels and Versace,
Only gay guys wear that much gold, ask Liberace,
MCs act arrogant, I wonder why,
If your skills matched your ego you’d be eating humble pie,
Your rhymes are more average than your girlfriend’s looks,
And with a face like that, I hope that girl can cook, it’s like that.

THE NOSEBLEED SECTION

(M. Lambert/D. Smith/B. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions. Written and performed by M. Lambert. Scratches by DJ Debris. contains a sample from “People In The Front Row” as performed by Melanie Safka used courtesy of RCA Records, a Division of Sony Music Entertainment. Incorporating elements of ‘People in The Front Row’ by Melanie Safka, Published by Yellow Dog Music Inc and Quartet Music (ASCAP).

Verse 1: Suffa

This is for the heads that’s loving the mix,
My people in the front, all covered in spit,
Batters in the box, Suffa to pitch,
Hilltop Hoods, all up in this bitch,
And we the funk leaders, punks you can’t beat us,
We bump and pump meters, we drunk you chumps need us,
So jump with us, down in the front if it’s,
Your flavor, come get drunk with us,
This life turned out nothing like I had planned,
Why not? By now I should’ve had some land,
Some money in my hand, around about fifty grand,
But I got nothing, I write rhymes on the bus,
I keep suffering; fuck the lines of the dust,
You keep sniffing, that shit is for the punk hoes,
This shit is for my bros, my people in the front row.

Verse 2: Suffa

I got Hip Hop taste buds,
I wanna hear that bass when I make love,
I wanna hear some lyrics when I wake up,
Write rhymes to get me through a break up, bitch,
Rough like whisky straight, no chaser,
Went through fifty breaks, no flavor,
Till I found this one, and made the,
Bass hook with the drum, my savior,
This is a comeback, tongue that’s sharp like a thumbtack,
It’s so tight James is saying give my funk back,
One track, eight track, ADAT, residual,
Noise, man fuck that, we clean with the digital,
Toys I’m the Apache, you’re failing to match me,
Throw your hands in the air like you’re hailing a taxi,
And move to the funk flow, stepping? Are you drunk bro?
This is for my peeps and the freaks in the front row.

Verse 3: Suffa

People don’t complain if Suffa’s in here,
And you’re in the front row, all covered in beer,
And club owners don’t say the place is wrecked it’s your fault,
If the roof is on fire it’s an electrical fault,
Man I bet you all bolt, when I bring it live,
Like Friday night footy, in my hoody can hide I,
Gets live on the breaks son, like Pace One,
Lads, if you’re heading to the bar grab your mates one,
Ladies come chill, come rock with me honey,
I got like half a mill in monopoly money,
There’s no stopping me honey, so you can take my hand,
We can lay on the beach and count grains of sand,
Or take a plane to Japan, and drink sake with mafia,
Fly to Libya for some Bacardi with Gadafi a,
Dinner date, followed by a funk show,
We’ll rip off our tops and jump around in the front row.

down for the cause feat. hyjak & dj bonez

(D. Smith/M. Lambert/B. Francis/J. McCarthy/G. Kordas) Produced by DJ Debris for Take Away Productions. Written and performed by J. McCarthy, D. Smith & M. Lambert. Scratches by DJ Bonez.

Verse 1: Hyjak

If someone you know sits in the room talking to the wall all day,
Don’t be afraid it probably means they went out and bought my tape,
Cos all it takes are these freshly chopped herbals,
And I could rhyme in a language that translates crop circles,
Controversial cos I contest commercial rappers,
Jak is throwing bottles while they’re rolling in their convertibles,
Don’t take it personal; I was born to burn you all,
With words so berserk I’m forced to stay disguised like Serpico,
The crime watcher, that’s right I watch crimes and laugh,
And take my half of the profits after watching for cop cars,
I can’t cooperate, only operate,
Chase promoters for dough they owe us and take what’s in their bank.

Verse 2: Pressure

I’m down for the cause like suicide bombers,
I made a life promise, pushing underground through city night commerce,
It suddenly spread through these southernly treads,
I got a beautiful mind it’s just stuck in an ugly head,
I’m stunning with skill while some are run of the mill,
We coming real, I’m from Adelaide, one in a mill,
This underground’s broke by any means, we ain’t getting cream,
Sweat the scene I’ll burn you never-beens like Oxyacetylene,
The larger a fools ego the harder they fall,
So I drink till I can hardly recall the party at all,
I’ve had enough; while they’re acting tough I’m acting up,
I don’t put MC’s under pressure I ain’t into all that faggot stuff,
This rhyme addiction’s so bad; I’m a go mad,
And stick up MC’s for their thoughts and add ‘em to my vocab,
If life’s a bitch then death’s a slut,
Cos death comes for everyone, and when it’s you turn you’re fucked.

Verse 3: Hyjak

I think I finally lost the plot, let’s have a round of applause,
I’m down for the cause; I’m moving mountains, bouncing off walls,
Rip countless cordless’s, confuse counselors, talking shit,
Forced to spit from now until I’m on stage with walking sticks,
Depicted a portrait of a anti-corporate kid,
Scared rappers get court orders against such rawness,
I’m mad for life, in the club hand me the mic,
I kick one verse and get myself banned for life,
If these hecklers dissing when I’m standing on stage,
I’m a call you out and show the true meaning of crowd participation,
Rolling down the street I just slapped the shit of a groupie,
And distract store managers while I’m stealing liquor and movies,
Forever broke, no job, nowhere left to go,
Jerry Springer comes on and I’ve already seen the episode,
That’s when you know you’re really unemployed,
Brain destroyed, step in to Centrelink and you see all your fucking boys.

Verse 4: Suffa

MCs claim they’re moving units, they serious? That’s not the fact though,
The fact is, you couldn’t sell a burger to Fat Joe,
Think your all of that, no, you’ll be falling back bro,
Jack lives here, you call him Jack I call him fatso,
I pack shows; slap foes like bitter defactos,
Step on this mic, I’ll end your life like tobacco,
My style’s more fatal than second hand medicine,
I even bomb veterans; Hip Hop connects this world like Thomas Edison,
Through lettering and underground peddling,
I get these kids open like lungs on Ventolin,
Presenting them with controversy like Jello Biafra,
I’m down for the cause, protect these artists like we’re APRA,
Like cats on Viagra, I could serve you all night,
Call me the customer, why’s that? Cos I’m always right,
And I’m always mad tight, like rich people with funds,
And the styles more deadly than sharing needles with bums, it goes…

MIC FELON

(D. Smith/M. Lambert/B. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions.
Written and performed by D. Smith. Scratches by DJ Debris.

Verse 1: Pressure

I got committed to the pen now my shit’s so locked down,
MCs think I’m doing time for this Hip Hop sound,
Debris the mastermind, Suffa’s my partner in crime,
I be the microphone felon, tell them your master design,
It all started when I was young fiending for mics,
Dreaming of heights that I would be reaching despite,
No-one would put me on, or even play me at that,
So earned my dues ganking mics labeled radio shack,
At open mic one night far from sober or with it,
This guy pulls me off and says ‘You’re rhyming over the limit,
And heading that way you won’t last a day or a night,
You need to be down for the long haul kid we call ‘em lifers,
Beside you need to stick with me cos rhyme pays,
And I know this heist where we can jack some sine waves,
They’re mainly small timers, freestylers,
Street urchins and beat merchants, none of them real rhymers,
They’re raping this culture and make me sick to my stomach,
These fools need to be arrested for sleeping in public’,
I dug it, got serious and mastered my rhyme,
Then rocked to the spot with my new partner in crime,
Trespassed on stage, stole the mic to further insult,
Committed arson, defamation and verbal assault,
They tried to blame the engineer oblivious to our ploy,
So we crept backstage as they buried the sound boy,
I stole the DJs crates and his diamond needles,
Now they got me on the run so it’s time to leave ya’ll,
We tried to cross the border, got caught as a noun carrier,
Pulled over and evicted for breaking the sound barrier,
This cop threw me to the ground, cos Hip Hop is violent,
Said ‘You got freedom of speech, just choose to remain silent’,
Then he checked in the trunk and he found the hot sound,
I got committed to the pen now my shit’s locked down.

Chorus

I’m a rhyme felon; peeps do what I tell them,
People can’t handle the product that I’m selling,
I left my dwelling now I’m on the run,
Microphone felony number one,
I’m a rhyme felon; peeps do what I tell them,
People can’t handle the product that I’m selling,
I left my dwelling now I’m on the run,
Microphone felony number one,
I’m a rhyme felon; peeps do what I tell them,
People can’t handle the product that I’m selling,
I left my dwelling now I’m on the run,
Microphone felony number one.

WALK ON FEAT. DJ NEXT

(M. Lambert/B. Francis/D. Smith/B. Hare) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions.
Written and performed by M. Lambert and D. Smith. Scratches by DJ Next.

Verse 1: Suffa

I speak from the heart, but only when I drink,
And I only ever sleep when I’m too tired to think,
Restlessness, the reaction that you will find,
From stress I guess and having a compassionate mind,
I worry bout the machine of progress, ain’t no stopping it,
The forest we destroy and the world we build on top of it,
Mercenaries get paid salaries to slaughter,
Girls obsessed with body image find calories in water,
Nurses comfort seven-year-old casualties of mortar,
A peasant’s daughter caught up in a war for a border,
And at home we treat our refugees like criminals,
Detention centres just a catch phrase for a minimal,
Security prison, we drive gold trimmed cars,
Down the road an Afghani kid grows up behind bars,
And we wonder why they hate the west,
When we treat them like they’re second-class citizens at best,
We’re all pawns in a game, the USA’s miniatures,
Aussie foreign policy with George Bush’s signature,
Peeps die for a watch and blue chip stock,
Did they do Big Pop or was it two bit cops?
I wanna sue kid rock for making rednecks think they’re Hip Hop,
Wanna swallow people’s pain and spit it from the hilltop,
Wanna affect change in the subjects that we talk on,
Connect strangers, work together and walk on.

Verse 2: Pressure

Polluting airways, mankind strays with no reforming,
So slap on that sunscreen and enjoy the global warming,
Cos ignoring world issues is what we all do best,
Just like Aussie politicians shoe shining for the U.S.,
To save losing face, no thoughts to the fumes that trace,
Our skylines and clogs our seas we swimming in consumer waste,
The fumes of hate rise globally but will it cease?
The day we try and find a little peace within the Middle East,
We shadow their borders yelling deplete their arms,
Its just war for black gold so they can grease their palms,
We all need a scapegoat, a villain to cop blame,
We’re just wolves in sheep’s clothing killing in gods name,
And that’s world wide, like global over population,
We mine the world dry of natural resources to feed our nations,
Appetite for waste, I see it everywhere,
I feel like throwing a flag of protest in Tiananmen Square,
We need to care for mother earth and all of her natural defenses,
But talk is cheap, and taking action is expensive,
We wear our hearts on our sleeves, our flags on our borders,
And that’s why nuclear testing’s done in pacific foreign waters,
We follow reporters with the worth of a scholar,
And gather personal opinions from a rag worth a dollar,
Man this is not a subject I feel lightly I can talk on,
The attitude is one man of many, so walk on.

THE CERTIFICATE FEAT. CERTIFIED WISE

(M. Lambert/D. Smith/B. Francis/D. Rankine/K. Adams/M. Leslie/K. Tinge/C. Green/A. Baker/M. Veraguth/A. Simmons/B. Johncock/D. Evans/A. Raymond/H. Watson/M. Honson/D. Yates/D. Barbara/M. Cox) Produced by Dazastah. Written and performed by M. Lambert, D. Rankine, K. Adams, M. Leslie, K. Tinge, C. Green, A. Baker, B. Francis, M. Veraguth, A. Simmons, B. Johncock, D. Evans, A. Raymond, H. Watson, M. Honson and D.Smith. Scratches by DJ Reflux, DJ Debris, DJ Snair & DJ Dyems.

Verse 1: Suffa

The Certified have arrived, extraordinaire, extravagant,
Beers like confidence; I drink it till I’m arrogant,
Cos I’m a cocky fuck, hit your girl and I knock her up,
You’re like what the fuck? In the net like a hockey puck,
Rappers get embarrassed when they see the way that we work,
They try hide their shame like fat guys swimming in t-shirts,
Research your Oz Hip Hop before you step to us,
And if you step, hands around your throat like a necklace.

Verse 2: Trials

Mr Trials, young ladies give me a call,
My number’s written next to fuckwit on the chicks bathroom wall,
I’m slightly easy and a trife bit sleazy,
With the wit of a red brick and chiselled body of Kim Beazley,
My theory is never touch the mic quite serious,
And keep girls out on dates later than their next period,
My crews got it made rocking the place,
With more dope rappers to match every pram chilling at Colonnades.

Verse 3: Edits

It’s Certified Wise, no need to tell you again,
Because these cunts can be so funky that the smell would offend,
A dyke’s girlfriend, well then lets get straight to the point shall we?
This rowdy crowd of MC’s and DJ’s know how to pound beats,
Like pigs with flat feet and crap leads walking down backstreets,
So much work went into this the linear notes are fact sheets,
Like Black Sheep I’ve got two words for those who slept,
No respect.

Verse 4: Mic Les

You thought it was safe, well guess what, what? Best to beware, My plans to find your weak points, then what? Get up in there,
Attack your mind with the fine rhyme when I find time,
It’s a fine line that you’re walking if you talk on that grapevine,
Can’t waste time, need to take on the job at hand,
Got skills for this profession typical Certified Wise man,
From sky to land, I’m overcoming all your schemes and plans,
So take cover as I rain thunder upon you man.

Verse 5: Headlock

Every song’s a collection of kid’s charred lives,
Like the porn section of Gary Glitters hard drive,
Certified Wise throws a jam that’s so hot.
It’d make a married man give up his annual blowjob,
You better show something, with Heady no bluffing,
On the wrong side of my tracks I smash your Petticoat Junction,
In a suffering city I’m punishing the pretty,
And if you don’t fucking feel me I’ll crush you without pity.

Verse 6: Blockade

I arrange certain words amongst silence,
To be heard in abundance while MC’s face redundance,
Stereo speakers exceed beyond specifications
Through extended noise generations,
Let’s cut the conversations to a small chat, why’s that?
I’m busy trying to react to the high-hat,
Blockade and Certified stand tall above ridiculous under-achievers,
And constant non-believers.

Verse 7: Sesta

I’m on stage with a handful of Panadol’s handing ‘em out,
Cos of the head throbbing from the head nodding,
And we about putting you out for the count like mic check,
You ain’t gonna get Certified respect,
So hide your decks, your mics, I might blackout,
In a cipher and I’ll still take the title,
The name’s Sesta, I snatch an ‘L’ plate and slap it on your forehead,
With more force than porn sex.

Verse 8: DJ Debris

It’s the Hoodhist monks with the Certified MC’s,
I make you nod your head like Parkinson’s disease,
So stand at ease but don’t step to our clique,
I’ve got a hundred metronomes just waiting to go sick,
So take your pick, but not the axe or the shovel,
After hours I make beds rock like Barney Rubble,
It’s kinda subtle, the way that my flow pours,
And leave your ears up shit creek without a Funkoar.

Verse 9: Flak

Now Certified Wise have got a hold of ya,
We drop a whole lot of funk like Magnolia,
We’re the freshest B-Boys in Nike and Adidas,
We’re hotter than heaters and blowing up speakers,
There’s no half-steppers, we far from a fake crew,
We make rap music every Aussie can relate to,
We’ll never take a tumble, we’re not gonna stumble,
If you diss any member the result is let’s rumble.

Verse 10: Simplex

Complex compliments the simple to complete this individual,
Simplex the original, beat the hypocritical,
Ridicule the weak with techniques that leave you burnt,
Like cannabis or cheeba, either you do or you don’t,
We’ll prove that you won’t ever endeavour to get it together,
To better these fellas, I be like whatever, you get it?
You’re wondering why you should never try?
The reason Certified is Mr Nice with the wise guys.

Verse 11: EXP

We leave crews stressfully on a quest to be,
Recognised, put up on a level next to me,
And the Wise unified allies who bless the beat,
We yet to see competitors who can compete,
With elaborate schemes they conjured up in their dreams,
Have to be out of your mind to even battle this team,
Masterminds of the game, nobody does it the same,
When we leave the stage we’re sure that you remember the name.

Verse 12: Kollaps

You faggot MC’s always compare one another,
Studio 2000’s where you shot your album cover,
I provide patience to your shit dictation,
And commence domestic MC word castration,
Like exitless effects from a psychedelic wanger,
For you there’s no escape like sperm in a franger,
Simulated imitations fade away progressively,
So go fuck yourself hermaphrodite MC.

Verse 13: Trauma

Authoritarian, paid to stamp, lyrical librarian,
My strong line is carnivore your line was vegetarian,
Comparing them? I’m tearing them in two so don’t you dare me then,
Impairing them with them venom, bringing heat like a solarium,
You’re staring? Then you better step back while I’m preparing them,
Certified lyrical delegates herald as Hellions,
Rebellions under one banner for new millenniums,
The south is Certified, it’s so good like Sanitarium.

Verse 14: INTEGER

My throat tear flows, tear foes and scare those who dare oppose,
But don’t compare to pros, I’m dressed in threadbare clothes,
Still these rare flows got MC’s pleading, give us a fair go,
Try to stop me you don’t realise the lengths, to which I’m prepared to go,
We could take a short journey and leave you at your wits end,
You get burnt like your smoking a cigarette from the lit end,
You’re acting so feminine you could be stressing about split ends,
Certified hit home with so much force they make bricks bend.

Verse 15: Hons

This situation get sticky, like a perv with porn mags,
My presence on stage will make you choke like horse gag,
Staunch cat, horn bag, you know my style sucker,
And that we made tracks to get you up like a fluffer,
Certified Wise, notorious to rip cunts,
Dissing us will get costly like private shows at strip clubs,
Beating me’s a hard task by itself so fuck you,
Cause that’s a fantasy like anal sex with Eliza Dushku.

Verse 16: Pressure

This is for life and many come and go like one night stands,
I treat live jams like a sermon and in my mic hand,
I hold the gift in which I bless ya,
Shit you never spit the fresher shit than Pressure,
Any means, risk or measure,
This cut is deep, so pump the beat for my fucking peeps,
I’m graded X, rated the way that I come with tongue and cheek,
We bring a ruckus like truckers in bar brawls,
Certified Wise and we out like last calls.

WORKING THE MIC

(M. Lambert/D. Smith/B. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions.
Written and performed by M. Lambert and D. Smith. Scratches by DJ Debris.

Verse 1: Suffa

Who’s fucking with me? Suffa MC,
Tongue like sandpaper, who’s rougher than we?
We’ve been gone for a while, it’s been a long a cold winter we,
Back to get the crowd of their feet like back injuries,
Raps, facts and similes, axe to hack into me,
They try bring me down like a Mack had backed into me,
Back, you can’t hinder me, fact you can’t injure me,
We back to crack the back of this wack rap industry,
These MC’s don’t wanna, they don’t wanna, mess with me fuck,
That bitch run his mouth, it’s just a storm in a d-cup,
You wack as Aussie troops going to Afghanistan,
I’m in a world war with Mohammed my man,
I’m taking MC’s to war fuck the friendships and politics,
End this cos my lyrical depth is bottomless,
We thought you’d forgotten us, there’s no forgetting me,
You wanna fight? You couldn’t win a battle hypothetically.

Verse 2: Pressure

I had enough of their dissing, so fuck ‘em ambition,
Is nothing but wishing, they come on fat when they’re under-nutritioned,
Hate it or love it you listen, you getting bumped in my system?
Your chance is hardly as much as an Iraqi becoming a Christian,
You’ll never shine; you can’t polish a turd,
Your shit is dope? I shove it down your throat so swallow your words,
I’m sick of copping slander for what I stand for,
You’re not the man you’re just masturbating in your propaganda,
And got a lot to answer, your shit don’t stink?
Think your ship won’t sink? Man that ain’t it don’t think,
That you’re large and we’re small time, tall poppies is small minds,
Carrying the heavy weight of their ego on small spines,
This is rugged raw for heads who want nothing more,
While others talk politics and swallow dicks like a fucking whore,
So what they bugging for? It’s just Hip Hop, love and war,
Pressure MC, Hilltop Hoods, a lyric juggernaut.

THE SENTINEL

(M. Lambert/D. Smith/B. Francis) Produced by Suffa for Suffering City Productions.
Written and performed by M. Lambert and D. Smith. Scratches by DJ Debris.

Verse 1: Suffa

We found this club on a side street, but I was kind of iffy,
We could hear some fly beats, but from outside it looked shifty,
I said this to Pressure, just before I finished my sentence,
This bouncer came out and dragged us both through the entrance,
This guy was huge and I was stumbling with my speech,
I finally mumbled that we just stumbled in from the street,
He said to us ‘So finding us was accidental?
Well I’m not surprised, we don’t advertise at the Sentinel’,
He said ‘What’s your name?’ he said ‘Pressure’, I said ‘Suffa’,
He said ‘Join the rest of the suckers’,
So we went right in, we sat right down,
Pressure said ‘I guess I’ll get us both our first round’,
He had to go downstairs cos the bar was underground,
He came back and said ‘Man these the cheapest drinks in town’,
I agreed, yes indeed, we could be here all night,
They’re only charging a buck fifty for imperial pints,
And I’m feeling alright, this place is kind of cool man,
I’m hoping tonight, nobody acts the fool and,
Ruins this vibe that I’ve got going,
Not knowing where I am, but this jam’s growing man this spots blowing,
The ladies were hot I sat down and listened,
To their four thousand watt, in-house sound system,
The DJ was laying tracks, keeping people on the floor and then,
He played a crazy break, and the chorus went.

Verse 2: Pressure

These dim lights hold, silhouetted figures fit in tight moulds,
This beer’s ice cold, yeah we’re going to be here till the nights old,
I might stroll, see what I can plunder, but I wonder,
Do I feel a blunder or is that the drink putting me under?
A strange feeling, this place got my brain reeling,
Looked up and seen a picture of the barkeep upon the main ceiling,
Feel like a broken dream, I’m walking through a smoke machine and,
In the corner seen a dope fiend blowing a smoke screen,
Sat down, looked at the picture on my bottle label,
Was the same man and the stripper that sat atop my table,
And as he licked her thighs I saw that glint in her eyes,
The wristwatch upon her waistlet had him hypnotized,
Then she kissed him goodbye, threw me a smile and a grin,
My reply cut thin by my hand wiping my chin,
Walked to the bar as the tender looked right through me I said ’Excuse me’,
And he replied in tones as if he talked about me not to me,
He said ‘Welcome to the Sentinel, I hope your stay here’s perpetual,
We serve drinks and broken dreams but no edibles’,
I bought a round, man I think this it’s watered down,
Its tasting sought of foul, this place is giving me the creeps and plus the doors are now,
Closing to the public so let’s make our move,
Then I was struck by the strangest sense of déjà vu,
Man I swore I was bent ‘Suffa man I’ve heard this all before it went’,
Ba ba ba ba ba, and then the chorus went.

Verse 3: Pressure & Suffa

Man this place’s got me reeling I took a seat to get my focus,
When a group of B-Boys gathered by the stage took my notice,
At about one o’clock, the club manager approached us,
And said ‘I heard you jokers were MCs, who’s the dopest?
Cos we run an open mic battle every night,
And to enter you’ve got to be, incredibly tight’,
I said ‘Get me the mic I might flip’, then the lights switched,
My vision was blurring and burning words inside my eyelids,
Rhyme progression begun, something possessing my tongue,
Blessing the deaf and dumb till I was falling short of breath in my lung,
‘When will they let us stop?’ I checked the time and it was,
Six in the morning, and we were still rhyming,
Battled MC after MC, battled MCs for days,
But they wouldn’t let us go, when we tried to leave the stage,
The manager said ‘You boys can never leave this tournament,
And you can never leave the Sentinel’, and the chorus went.

HERE COME THE GIRLS – BONUS TRACK

(M. Lambert/D. Smith/B. Francis/T. Dawson) Produced by Debate. Written and performed by D. Smith and M. Lambert. Scratches by DJ Debris. Additional guitar by Nick Lambert. Additional keyboards by John Bartlett. John Bartlett appears courtesy of Illusive Sounds.

Verse 1: Pressure

I need a girl that ain’t looking for the perfect fella,
And doesn’t care if I’m broke or I’m earning cheddar,
One that can service Pressure while she works a Webber,
And knows she’s late when I ain’t got the nerve to tell her,
What I want is a woman that’s hotter than December,
A goddess that wouldn’t mind me proper on a bender,
Honest I’d put in my promise and surrender,
As long as the pushing lasts longer than her temper,
For this girl I’d throw it all aside,
A wild one with attitude and no rules to guide,
Ain’t obsessed with her looks or own foolish pride,
The only ring she wants is a phone call at night,
I want a girl that’s down for breaking the law,
Rough exterior but heart hidden away at the core,
One that will wait at the door if I’ve been away on a tour,
With handcuffs on the bed and duck tape on the floor.

Verse 2: Suffa

I need a girl that’s like…
Cold paddles on a bleeding heart,
Ava Adore, we must never be apart,
I need a girl that ain’t torn the scene up,
A storm in a d-cup, who don’t mind porn or a pre-nup,
I need a chick that plays video games,
Not the type to complain and never give me no brain,
And don’t give me cocaine addicted,
Honey going through my jeans for money hiding meth in her lipstick,
She’d talk like she’s tasting me, walk like she’s chasing me,
Cos I ain’t chasing Amy like Jason Lee basically,
I need a fox in some fishnets putting pots in the Dishlex,
Who don’t run from spiders and squash her own insects,
Intense, make-up running, crazy beautiful,
Make love in the sun and graze me with her cuticle,
Head in the clouds with one foot on the ground,
She’d put up with me even when I’m putting it down.

Verse 4: Suffa

I need a girl that’s like… Check the god’s dimples,
She’d love me even if I looked like Don Rickles,
Drooling like pitbulls, hot but not fickle,
So loyal, not spoiled, and smart, so not simple,
She’d be complex, on lock, want sex, non-stop,
Pop tops off beer for me, girl would even pop-lock,
Crop top, mid riff, not the town bicycle,
Bisexual mistress with eyes like icicles.

Verse 3: Pressure

Send me an angel sipping bitter lager,
Envision her to visit the strippers with her partner,
I don’t need a girl living with her father,
It’s sort of just torturous like that chick in Nicaragua,
She’s tasteful, graceful, nothing short of a ten,
In lingerie when the longest day draws to an end,
She knows dating’s an occasion with laws that attend,
Cause three’s a crowd, unless her friend’s more than a friend.