Discover the poetic beauty in ‘God Lives Through’ by A Tribe Called Quest. 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 A Tribe Called Quest or a lover of well-crafted words, our detailed analysis will give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of this song.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God
There’s a million MCs that claim they want some
But see, I create sounds that make your ears go numb
Peace to Sayres Ave, yeah, you know how we go
My best friend Steven at the Home Depot
Laurelton is in the house, I can’t forget Southside
Walk past MCs like that girl did The Pharcyde
I’m labeled as the cat’s meow, the MC with the know-how
Act like you know, not now but right now
Beast of the East, on MCs, I have a feast
I’d eat that ass like quiche, crack a smile like Shanice
Straight outta Jamaica, seen? Jamaica, Queens
But you could find me out in Georgia, or anywhere in between
Now if my partners don’t look good, Malik won’t look good
If Malik don’t look good, then Quest won’t look good
If the Quest don’t look good, then Queens won’t look good
But since the sounds are universal, New York won’t look good
Picture Phife losing a battle, come on, get off it
Put down the microphone, son, surrender, forfeit
Did I hear something ’bout a crew? What they wanna do?
You better call Mr. Babyface so he can bring out the cool in you
Or it’ll be a sad love song being sung by Toni Braxton
And I’ll dissect you like a fraction
All you wannabe top cat MCs, I’ll pop you like a zit
You wanna be the champ, you more like Chief Some-shit
Big up myself every time when it comes to this
MCs be running scared as if they’re watching The Exorcist
I kick more game than a crackhead from Hempstead
My styles are milk, man, you’d think that I was breastfed
You know the steelo when the diggy Dawg is on the scene
I dedicate this to all the MCs outta Queens
That goes for Onyx, LL, Run DMC
Akinyele, Nasty Nas and the Extra P
You need a chart, straight up and down, man, there ain’t no other
Nuff respect to all my peeps that made the album cover
Yo, Tip, don’t worry none, you know I get the party jumping
Get on the mic and break ’em off a little, little something
Yo, Tip, don’t worry none, you know I gets the party jumping
Get on the mic, my man, and break ’em off a little something
Oh my God, oh my God (la, la, da, da)
Oh my God, oh my God (shooby, do, do, do)
Oh my God, oh my God (la, la, la, la)
Oh my God, oh my God (shooby, do, do, do)
Oh my God, oh my God (la, la, la, la)
Oh my God, oh my God (shooby, do, do, do)
Oh my God, oh my God (you know I’m on the other, for the top 40)
Oh, my God, oh my God (we gotta do it like this)
We got the funk doody don shit, clearly, it’s the bomb shit
So recognize me, kids memorize me
Every day, I be scrounging, really I be lounging
I play the down low, very, very incognito
Aries is my sign, I know that I can rhyme
Sometimes I rhyme in riddles, plus I make the honeys wiggle
Intellect is the major, some heads like to wager
The skills on the hill, overlooking dollar bills
Man, you’re crazy, thinking you can phase me
The Ab doesn’t study mere nonsense, money
Life seems to need me, MCs seem too cheesy
With their doody ass renditions of defeating competition
I rock to the roll man, yes, I’m a soul man
Bet your bottom dollar Vinia will make you holler
As you stand at attention, did I forget to mention?
MCs will give me twenty if I sense that they act funny
Lyrics are abundant, right there, I sound redundant
Just mentioning the fact that the area is fat
I dwell in the under, so honey it’s no wonder
That I get plenty of tail, well I even get white
I’mma bank-hitting head crack, there, money, take that
Breaking niggas off, cut their bank, then I’m off
All my Nikes match my ‘Lo hat, beat joint is mad fat
Got the cutter of the box if a kid think he’s ox
For tier means creator, the poetry relator
It’s hemmed like Betsy Ross, let me tell you who’s the boss
Oh my God (la, la, la)
Oh my God (la, la, la)
Oh my God (la, la, la, smooth it out, y’all)
Oh my God (la, la, la)
Oh my God (la, la, la)
Oh my God (la, la, la)
Oh my God (la, la, la)
(La, la, la)
Queens got a
Brooklyn got a
Bronx got a
Staten Island got a
Long Island got the zone
Jersey got a
Philly got a
Milwaukee got a
LA got a
Oaktown got a zone
La, la, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la
See I like to get down, Jack