Search results for scream for my icecream by blood on the dancefloor p 2278937

We've found 31 lyrics, 68 artists, and 100 albums matching scream for my icecream by blood on the dancefloor p 2278937:


Albums:

För Sent För Edelweiss (Håkan Hellström) · Scream Dracula Scream (Rocket from the Crypt) · Scream, Dracula, Scream! (Rocket from the Crypt) · Scream, Dracula, Scream! (Rocket from the Crypt) · Live För Dig (Lars Winnerbäck) · Ett Slag För Dig (Tomas Andersson Wij) · Känn Ingen Sorg för Mig Göteborg (Håkan Hellström) · Jag Är Inte Rädd För Mörkret (Kent) · Ett Slag För Dig (Tomas Andersson Wij) · Blood for Blood (Hellyeah) – and 90 other albums »


Tonight, I strike
My scalpel sharp
Cuts to the heart
I love to carve
Ripper
Fit for The Beast
A royal feast
Of women's screams
Ripper
It's the blood before
Or catch me on the dancefloor feeling some tits
Sex sells, so I'mma P-I-M-P
So my pockets never be empty
It ain't no problem, we scoop them models
We got
ain't ready for blood sport
Yo we masked up, pointing the heat
Duct taping her, gag her mouth so she can't scream
Start (raping her backwards masked)
of the slums
With a shot that go, for twisted metal for cash flow
React slow nigga and get, P.L.O
By the lone gunner, who took revenge for his brother
Who got
like their really that strong
You really that bitch nigga pussy, thongs
P that nigga that will break your jaw
You get jumped by a mobb of niggas for
me while I'm sleepin, two to the head
While I'm in bed, leakin blood on my satin sheets
Is there a heaven for a baller? I'm gettin suspicious
sleepin', two to the head
While I'm in bed, leakin' blood on my satin' sheets

Is there a heaven for a baller? I'm gettin' suspicious
Of this b****
Um, yeah palms sweating guess it's time for the murder
My nigga my nerve, I swerve left you dead on the curb
Tell his family get them black clothes
the brotherhood
In the beginning, yet you never could
Listen
Ain't that kept undercover another one cause I got
Six got hung by the beast
Looking for the golden
shot for his sheep coat
Childhood lesson make me see him drop in my weed smoke

It's real, grew up in trife life, did times or white lines
The hype
"Puffy is good, (hey!) but Slim Shady is for the children!" (wait!)
I look at my life in a new light, fuck it
Give me two mics; I write songs for me,
to the rain
In the blood, sweat & tears, from the years in the game
My connection to Fame, is immortal
Them bullshit we fought through
(Remember what them
Cole, Gina, Tommy
P**** is a weapon and my hoes think I'm Simon
And Simon say go and get my motherf***ing money
Young mula b****, tell them hoes, take
tha record store
As if it was a drug house
My lyrics bang like a Crip or Blood
Nigga what ?
It ain't nothin but a party when we thug
And there I
Hollygrove!
Now all my Bloods scream "Soowoo!" and "Da da dooh!"
I know my role
And I play it well
And I wear it well
On my Libra Scale
I suck a p****
F***
EL-P Speaking:

Is there anyone close.. by.. who can listen to this?
And who can see it.. plain as day
Look how it FALLS down
Falls down upon
real. 
I'm 'bout to do my thing to shine. 
Said everybody
Shine. 
See'mon."

It's not luck that I'm sittin' here 
Spittin' for y'all.
Preeld in by
Klan Kaze playas makin them profits 
Hoe 

[MC Mac]
chillin down on the lower level 
waitin for my time to come 
with this fool 
a million styles 
maybe
on my back initiated in blood 
Bout it niggas start fightin' when I walk in the club 
You could tell I'm a soldier by my army fatigues 
And you could
baby, for some shit, I'm so sorry
To be tellin' you I see the signs of triggers & blood
That was bum-rushed by thugs, intoxicated with drugs
Not to be
(lynch):
Feel my nature rise, blood shot red eyes
Waitin' in your back seat, catch you by surprise
Situations and circumstances make you take them
"Puffy is good, (hey!) but Slim Shady is for the children!" (wait!)
I look at my life in a new light, fuck it
Give me two mics; I write songs for me,
"Puffy is good, (hey!) but Slim Shady is for the children!" (wait!)
I look at my life in a new light, f*** it
Give me two mics; I write songs for me,
studio some of the hottest UK cats out there


My man Skinnyman {Woah, woah, Blade 
And Mr. Tibbs what's the deal? What you got for me?

{Yeah
in the door, pedal to the floor
I'm routin' down South, for my aim is to score
Eight cylinder, screamin' 'Fuck the law!'

Got a tank full of gas,