Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Woods' Wolves, artist - 137Date of issue: 14.05.2020
Song language: English
Woods' Wolves |
| People |
| Want to |
| Know what |
| I do |
| Write about |
| Each day |
| I suppose |
| I just |
| Describe |
| The creatures |
| In one’s |
| Attic space |
| I don’t got a favorite style |
| I do what the beat beckons; |
| Always been wary of smiles |
| Specially from Sirens; |
| I’ve been called bibliophile |
| (Seeing what page reckons); |
| At the feast of wisdom |
| Man, I go back for my seconds |
| All of the venom is not an anomaly |
| Know it’s indicative of a disease; |
| I have been looking around for the comedy |
| Midst all the filth and the pestilent fleas |
| Oh my, had to scrape some people up from my floor |
| So I could deliver them back to their own door |
| Funny how good liquor can eliminate the senses |
| Couple downed shots and they’re messing up decor; |
| And I got a message for the housing authorities |
| Your enforcement is so filled with big holes and deformities |
| I, keep the club bouncing like Tigger; |
| Fie, many don’t keep the same vigor; |
| Sigh, little things can really get bigger |
| If you got a problem try to pull the fucking trigger |
| Listen, I don’t want to have an attitude |
| So I’ll try to say this without even being rude |
| I don’t want to be that person rejoicing in ostracization |
| But won’t you see the fucking enemies accrued |
| Please |
| I do not want your advice |
| I’m more obliged to throw my bloody dice |
| Than listen to someone who’s not in the trenches |
| Please name me a coach who instructs from the benches |
| Said this before, happily, I’ll say it again: |
| If you don’t understand the truth coming out of my pen |
| Then I do suggest you put on your reading glasses |
| Wouldn’t understand me if I fucking spoke molasses |
| Listen to me |
| That’s not a strike to the ones who don’t get it at first |
| It’s a strike to the ones who drink the most and have the least of thirst |
| It’s a reproach of the hungry roach that tries to spoil kitchen goods |
| It’s a castigation of the wolves that roam within the woods |
| When I was younger, didn’t have that many friends |
| And I pushed all through my hunger so I could—my field—till |
| Then I got older, and you know how the path bends |
| Well the only hunger I now have is for the fucking quill |
| I don’t got a favorite style |
| I do what the beat beckons; |
| Always been wary of smiles |
| Specially from Sirens; |
| I’ve been called bibliophile |
| (Seeing what page reckons); |
| At the feast of wisdom |
| Man, I go back for my seconds |
| Gloom, when I came out the womb |
| But I made the best of my gilded tomb; |
| Doom, at the bottom of life’s flume |
| Fee-fi-fo-fum, giants need room |
| Don’t need a gold chain |
| Just want a bigger, bigger crowd |
| For the arcane runes that I been sprayin'; |
| And yes I do want brain |
| But I’m talking 'bout the one in head |
| Not the one for which you’re prayin' |
| I, keep the club bouncing like Tigger; |
| Fie, many don’t keep the same vigor; |
| Sigh, little things can really get bigger |
| If you got a problem try to pull the fucking trigger |