Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song The Curse , by - Charon DonSong from the album The Best of Snowgoons, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопThe Curse |
| They say the mind is a terrible thing to waste |
| So my every rhyme is designed from a spiritual place |
| Get the time, I’m some kind of a lyrical great |
| I drink wine from the vines of superior grapes |
| Why you think I carry the weight? |
| They got me very irate |
| I make a classic, it’s a habit how I bury these stakes |
| You can’t compare me to snakes, I never bite, I never crawl |
| On the mic I’m something that you never saw, this is raw |
| Y’all can’t be serious, it’s hilarious |
| I leaves you bloody like the first man to have a period |
| Period, I ain’t gotta write no more |
| But since the beat kinda nice I’m a write some more |
| Fight your war for what? |
| Little cash, little cheques? |
| So when I die you can put a little flag on my chest? |
| You a fag with a rep, I got shotties for your men |
| If Obama don’t get the spot, it’s probably not for him |
| Enough black men do good to only get shot |
| That’s why I’m good in the hood, I don’t need to get the props |
| I only need to get these thoughts off my brain |
| Chopped let Juju Mob in the game |
| Here comes the storm, get your talking on, sick nature back from the dead |
| Like the motherfuckers been reading the Necronomicon |
| When the sick person is talking, I murder the market |
| I’m a monster, kids trying to see me searching the closets |
| If incompetent knuckleheads are being slumberers |
| I’m sick, I kick in a fucking door in and slap em out of pajamses |
| Y’all fakers believe that I’ve been racing with cheetahs |
| My face is the thesis to standing tall and my laces Adidas |
| If I’m unlucky to fuck |
| I’m sick motherfucker, plague wouldn’t touch me with rubber gloves |
| Half-steppers stay beneath me, the rap shit’ll never leave me |
| I’ll bring thunder like Thor swinging his hammer to AC/DC |
| Fuck you if you think this shit is improper |
| While I’m lying rappers be pushing their keys thinking they’re hustlers |
| I’ll show and prove, never do it for paper |
| maker or move for Snowgoons and the nature, motherfucker |
| The mob remains, we was just in the shadows |
| King of kings, Kamachi and Cauze, brother of pharaohs |
| Cousins of killers, fathers of felons |
| Don’t like no weed around us, we’ll abolish your section |
| Got juice? |
| You willl get bashed to a pulp |
| Real talk, yeah since the status was cult |
| Hundred and eighty-seven songs, that ain’t half of my vault |
| Hell froze, paved my way out on a path made of salt |
| Me and Mach made of fire, ain’t no patching the torch |
| Pass out passing the pork, I’ll splatter your thoughts |
| West Philly where I rep, where my passage was taught |
| Wilding up the block while grandaddy sat on the porch |
| Watching the news with his back to the room |
| I grew up with kids who swam with crack in the womb |
| Now they selling the same shit, pop’s style on the same strip |
| Shower you, rhymes powerful as a cage kick |
| Oh what a tangled web, I leave you maimed and dead |
| Without a microphone I make you fucking bang your head |
| My anger’s fed when I get some heat from wax |
| Gattsburg, woulda been a hit man, just learn to rap first |
| Used to be a fat jerk, now I’m a skinny one |
| One man, one gun, I go to war with anyone |
| You fuck with Juju Mob, that’s asinine |
| Won’t have to rhyme, nigga we’ll settle this by blasting nines |
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