Lyrics:
But why the radio so loud? Too much spent
Never be a Bush man, too Bill Clint'
Both country boys, and if the head right, E.I
Here for my residency,
Second strike, they finna Billy Clint' 'em
Red and white, he got the blues
Turn him into food, everybody grip a biscuit
Runnin' lights inside the city
his freedom
It's like George Clint', P-Funk era, we just on syrup
I keep pourin' Actavis codeine, my drink is sterile
I'm a rockstar rapper type
when we had one shirt to go with the jeans though
Now man like me and Clint can afford those whips like Gran Torino
Grr
Crocodile tears, she ain't
Clint Eastwood, 'stead of bullets, rhymes I pack
In my flow gun, so son, ya better run,
'Cause when it comes to hostage and prisoners, we take none.
We
good, roll through your hood, pushin' a hearse
I wish y'all would come around like Clint Eastwood
As if you're reppin' your hood in my neck of the woods
ya suckers just the same way a beast could
Tearin through your town like mother fuckin Clint Eastwood
'Cause I be fakin the rhymes that keep ya
Clark
Or George Clint, shoot, I'm the kid with the funky loot
So if ya want some, get some
If ya need some, here's some
If ya don't just step
him
Reached into my d-da-da-das and pulled out my strap, check it out
Nickle plated chrome planet Clint Eastwood special
Designed strictly for
I hate to brag, but damn I'm good
And if mics were a gun, I'd be Clint Eastwood
And if rap was a game, I'd be MVP
Most Valuable Poet on the M-I-C
I'm just as good as Clint Eastwood, so won't you make my day
Markie the original, yes I am the boss
And I can rock the microphone for you and yours
but damn I'm good
And if mics were a gun, I'd be Clint Eastwood
And if rap was a game, I'd be MVP
Most Valuable Poet on the M-I-C
Or if rap was
And you know Clint Black is where it's at
When he's singing those songs from under his hat
Ain't nothin' wrong with Aaron Tippin
Young Dwight Yoakom
I never stay at the last resort
I'm not tall but I never come up short
I always pay, I pay and pay
I got arrested and I got away
I met Clint
writin rhymes with the pants saggin
And hit the saloon, causin the guns in my holster to make room
like Josie Wale and Clint Eastwood at High Noon
clowns get pounds of terror
A full whip for more clips then Clint has in his era
Dirty Harry, cold black the uncanny, of Kojak
A Beretta sticking up trucks
just extra there
I'm goin' crazy like Clint Eastwood
And that empty chair keep your eyes peeled
Runnin' through a mine field
Even Lord Finesse will tell
superior to many people
It means King Asiatic Nobody's Equal
I hate to brag, but damn I'm good!
And if mics were a gun, I'd be Clint Eastwood
And if rap
you all and
Phil Spector really has it all Uncle Floyd
Shows on the T.V. Jack Nicholson, Clint Eastwood, 10cc
But it's not my place
But it's not
to be with my rock n' roll boy (oh yeah)
I want to be with my rock 'n roll boy. Hey!
I used to see you at Mitchell Park
Hanging out Kyle and Clint in
(uh-huh)
I up and squeeze, no three AG's (yeah)
I keep El Chapos in my crib (uh-huh)
No Toronto, I got six (uh-uh)
Big revolvers like I'm Clint (uh-huh)
stretched out
On stage with the gauge, flash the tech like Clint East'
Polo drawers, valour headband, Genova convertible couch
In the back, with the two
bitch came up in a tight ass jag
She pulled right in the driveway bumpin' Clint Black
We she stepped to the ride I had to take a step back
She had long
and drop a coppa (bacon bits) (oh ya)
Brake out with the trumpet service something proper proper
So silence of the hams
Clint East I smell your cut
Lets
Discuss these Clint Lyrics with the community:
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In