Discover the poetic beauty in ‘Coffee Shoppe’ by 8Ball. This lyric breakdown takes you on a journey through the artist’s thoughts, emotions, and the story they aim to tell. From clever metaphors to evocative imagery, we delve into the nuances that make this song a lyrical masterpiece. Whether you’re a fan of 8Ball or a lover of well-crafted words, our detailed analysis will give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of this song.
You are now witnessing the effects of the buddha!
Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo.
Redman kick through your door.
Liquidated then I come through your pores.
Think the track is bleedin’; get at the gauze.
Mix fidgit ‘fore I rip it in four’s.
Look at my face; you can tell that I’m slick.
The blunt exercise; ten in the clip.
Y’all niggaz ready for the un counterfeit?
D-O, dot, b-bo; tuck in your shit.
That bogus holder of the sticky dolja
Got me appearing on the wanted poster.
It’s like when your body get caught on rotors.
Wnen I snap like strings through boat motors.
My kitchen fridge look like Jeffery Dahmer’s.
Boys screamin’ for mama from the drama.
My hunger for hip-hop got my gun up.
Yo, EightBall, hit the marijuana.
EightBall blazin’ the hay,
An hella pound almost everyday.
Real playas run the game that they play.
That’s why I’m doin’ it the playa way.
I say dope rhyme’s, potent and real;
Showin’ skills all my homies can feel.
Smile at you; see the name on my grill.
Cut the track up; let me show you the deal.
I be twisted with that Redman.
We get it all; cookin’ dope, makin’ bread, man.
I got the eagle full of hollow tipped lead, man.
Hear what I said, man?
Can all that weak noise.
I write; busta, go and get your little weak boys.
You know what bring a player joy?
Playin’ with them glock toys.
See, I avoid all suckas trippin’;
Full of liquor, actin’ like a bunch of women lippin’.
Interested in what I be grippin’.
Dippin’ in the Benz, zippin’.
Pass all you haters, fakin’
Runnin’ ’round, seein’ real players imitatin’.
Breakin’ concentration; all up in my situation.
Get y’all shit together.
Coffee shop we with; whatever.
EightBall stay high forever.
Yo Doc, keep it tucked under my lever.
We here to keep the party live;
Smoke hay till we chinky eyed.
Want to brawl?
We can meet outside.
Red and Ball be down to ride.
Yo, yo, look around you mothafuckers,
It’s a hip-hop holocaust.
Yeah, you just found the right superheroes to take care of that shit,
Head rush and green stinky,
Feelin’ like a nigga dropped a mickey.
Drink up the Hen, and watch me get tipsy.
Who want to ride with me; one hundred-sixty?
Up and down forty-eight, trackin’,
Ski mask; kickin’ doors in; straight beat jackin’.
Ball battin’ rhymes all in your skull, crackin’.
Actin’ like I got a problem that’s heavy to me.
Smokin’ brothers like a dooby in a gangsta movie.
MC’s turn stank like a old lady coochie.
Ball and Red be all up in your shit;
So deep that it be damn near permanent.
So authentic you can tell it from conterfeit.
Who want a hit of the purest coffee shop crop;
Guaranteed to be bomb to the last drop?
Ball and Red keep it stone like Bedrock.
We keep it hot.
I’m the blackout mode.
I snatch cheese that your mousetrap hold.
Yo, who fucks ya baby?
Hey, Kojack knows my flows, Kodak
Couldn’t hold that pose.
Goofy playin’ tough on the streets.
Blue collar MC’s suffer the heat
Until I reach the isosceles heat.
Right angle better; double your sleeve.
I’m just a black, nation wide, singer.
Cops lookin’ for Red, but can’t arraign us.
You need more than lion trainers to tame us.
Famous for cuffin’ mics with five fingers.
That’s why I walk so distorted;
Any form of harsh aborted.
Word so superb it’ll turn to herb if you snort it.
Fifty sack and a nick can vouch for it.
We keep it critical.
If you hard core: spit it out, out, out, out.
Doc, who be arousin’ police?
My underground funk be plowin’ the streets.
So if you claimin’ you the best MC
Bring your arm over here and handcuff me.
We battle till the cattle learn to speak.
Cross examine me; I’m straight up framed!
[Chorus x 2]