Dub Pistols - Cyclone

Here are the thrillseekers . . . corrupt, and immoral.

I rip rock unravel when I talk travel
My rock busts shots with the beats that I babble
When I get in your head my thoughts become lead
Pipes that never get the C's out of bread
Repeat the bloodstream
Try to come clean
Got into V by dream to the streets
With a three-sixty degreee turn on the globe
And now you got me runnin' round my area code.

*CHORUS*
You got me runnin in the cyclone
You got me runnin in the cyclone
You got me runnin in the cyclone
Pretend I'm in the zone.
You got me runnin in the cyclone
You got me runnin in the cyclone
You got me runnin in the cyclone
Pretend I'm in the zone

Three seats for the future
Birth on the stairs --?
I go up from the step for my pen to exert
And the G's that revert from the smashin source
In reverse, I take the opposite course
To avoid the steroids and you jack to my record
Because its style, its the style gets neglected
By the natural physique on my way to the men's room
That's when I flip the (neat freak)
Let my lyrics leak as the mountain goes through
I take one last look and take a giant leap
I take a giant leap
I take a giant leap
I take a giant leap
I take a-
I take a-

*CHORUS x3*