Lyrics:
Yeah
We cop new timepieces when these fools deny Jesus
Hate is a sin dog, be real
(I got my hand on the pump)
You on Twitter in your feels
[Ransom]
Where the fuck's all these niggas saying Ran' isn't hot
I damage the block
I scramble like Randall with rocks
I'm that nigga in
in his shoulder bag
Just a grasp on the meaningless
It's JF's Korpse fucking Marilyn's
Appear born of the earth
And yet a child of the industry
You
in his shoulder bag
Just a grasp on the meaningless
It's JF's Korpse fucking Marilyn's
Appear born of the earth
And yet a child of the industry
You
that's been proved to you!
There was a big crowd of mourners at the church house
The section hands laid him in the sand
Trains go by on the rails John
My name, it probably ring like Las Vegas slot machines
The MAC by my pelvis in my Helmut Lang (uh-huh)
The shells'll bang, make everything outta your
to lift our
Hands in the air and cry for a switch
Michael Stipe:
Father, father
P Diddy:
Father help us, come on
Michael Stipe:
Everybody thinks we're
my head away
We gotta first world vision to comfty, to lift our
Hands in the air and cry for a switch
Michael Stipe:
Father, father
P Diddy:
Father
broke jail about a dozen times
The babies all got sick and when the doctor wanted money
He said, "I'll pay you a quarter at a time startin' tomorrow
that's been proved to you!
There was a big crowd of mourners at the church house
The section hands laid him in the sand
Trains go by on the rails John
the 'Vert when I'm poppin' at work
Nigga run up on me, he gon' pop in his tomb
Send his mama balloons, I'm mobbin' with goons
I yell, "Fuck twelve" like
humans
We like to be wined and dined by candle light
Not being couped up in the house trying to be held up tight
So jazzy jeff and fresh prince don't mean
From the lack of oxygen
Im that confident
I’m that sick
That I’ll be coughing in my coffin
Charles Barkley be barking
His hearts in
A milk carton
That i
away I feel like dolla dame
I'm tryna be a icon in this game they all gone know my name
Ian wit the back forth I'm rocking high fashion
My neck a disco
morning, good morning)
Just like a window, I'm here to air it out (hi, hello), bitch
He wanted beef in the parking lot, uh
My niggas dogs and we bark
My hands to myself
Imma ridah I ain't never ran for no help
Kept that by the belt cause
Niggas will get to creepin
My niggas will grip them heaters
vest on and shoot myself in the head (Bang!)
I'm steamin' mad (Argh!) And by the way when you see my dad? (Yeah?)
Tell him that I slit his throat, in
Charles Gibbs
Words and Music Chris Foster
Copyright May 3rd 2003
Terror on the high seas wrought by Charles Gibbs
Brandishing his sword in pirate
out forcefully
And I could hear the tissues rustle in his hand from up where he was seated
And he asked this gorgeous intern "now do you want
I hear voices
Great
I'm as strong as Peterson a doctor in despair uncatered to but grasped as a tool and an outlet to interject some sort Of human
ditches
Before you step to the psycopath lunatic
H ave yo gat in yo hand and ready for the 187 dance!
[Chorus]
"187 don't stop" - [Dr. Dre]
"''Cause
proved to you!
There was a big crowd of mourners at the church house
The section hands laid him in the sand
Trains go by on the rails John Henry laid.
[Pharoahe Monch]
GET THE FUCK UP!
Simon says "GET THE FUCK UP!"
Throw ya hands in the sky (buck buck buck buck buck!)
Queens is in the back
Get the fuck up!
Simon says get the fuck up!
Throw ya hands in the sky (Bo! Bo! Bo! Bo! Bo!)
Queens is in the back sipping 'gnac, y'all wassup?
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