it an artform? it's lacquered kareoke with a healthy cocaine habit and a make-up department. why call it composition? it's kids entertainment with a coterie
Překlad: Milionů mrtvých. Je to na hovno firmy.
it an artform? It's lacquered kareoke with a healthy cocaine habit and a make-up department. Why call it composition? It's kids entertainment with a
den done It's allowed us to run a business, legimitated our monies Got us out the ghettos and relocated out mommies I made it all the way here, ain't
park in front of my enemy's eyes They see that it's war we life stealers Hollow tip, lead busters there's no Heaven or hell Dead is dead, fuckers and
little Layzie Mommy, hey mommy Where's my daddy, where's my daddy? Mommy, hey mommy Where's my daddy, where's my daddy? Mommy, hey mommy Where's my daddy, where's
Where niggas do their strugglin' die with a straight face Survivin', under conditions demons dinin? You can run it but can?t hide it, so step aside It?s
a scratch that needs to get itched huh Cause man I live in the D, this shit ain't given for free Nothing's different to me, so what, it's easy to see
dizzy south, til he's out, busy mouth Swerve to the curb, hit the bird split the kitties out We kidnap for trap - blackmail for a gang a mill Spot banger
a killin' Wanna see twice a million, no love for a got civilian Mix-a-lot in the spot yellin', for a second, freeze dealin' Back to business, pump '
it, boy I put a hole in ya' can't nobody heal it, boy We got this shit locked can't nobody steal it, boy I'm tryin' to stash somethin' close to a million
and weed When it burn slow, motherfucker I'll stank ya That's what I been taught on these streets Ain't a goddamn thing that can't be bought on these streets You want a
gate so I could get a fat sack, Roll up a swisher now it's time to get blowed, Creepin' round the mac peepin' out them dog ho's, Saw my nigga slim, in
with some shit, Call it yayo, and the other shit just call it brown, Some fools lay it down, then act a clown, Call me sousa, I toss a, bird in a matter
s of punk All the rock star bullshit he wasn't afraid to debunk Labeled himself a musical commie When in fact he was everyone's mommy Gave the kids a
, Feds rushin' my spot A million haters want me dead, forced to carry a gat But you's a seven-time felon, what you doin' wit that? It's a Catch-22, either
and smacked a cop But they still comin, its seven of em, and they catchin quick After Sunroof I through a smoke bomb and they got lost in it Make a left a right a
