Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Imported Goods, artist - Action Bronson. Date of issue: 26.08.2010
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Imported Goods |
| Oh my god, this mothafuckin' sour is too good |
| I don’t even be fuckin' with that other shit |
| That shit hurts my throat man |
| I need that shit that tastes like fuckin', fuckin' soap |
| Joy, Ajax. |
| Shit… ayo, this is what I be doin' on that… |
| Orlando Magic warm-up suits and black Shaqs |
| '95: younger Bronson on the fast track |
| To blast gat, now I’m looking past that |
| I want the cash stack higher than the NASDAQ |
| I put the work in, the downtime I’m cooking lamb |
| A thousand Dutches in the air like it’s a reefer jam |
| Aretha jam, you better R-E-S-P-E-C-T me |
| Or risk the forest where the motherfucking rest your team be |
| Peking duck, and large liver, goose carver |
| Swiss Bally’s, smoke cigar just like a new father |
| You know the motto, jacket to the knee |
| I can’t help if I’m a fiend, I had to tap into the beat, Lord |
| Spark a seance, cause everybody lifted |
| I’m like the strainer with the fucking powder being sifted up |
| This is Queens Day, alleys where the fiends play |
| Yo cuff the Guess on the construction, take it easy |
| This for my people making sales until they back hurt |
| See the beast on the creep, they let the Mac squirt |
| Bitch on the backs, that do the dippies on the bikes, and |
| Loud pipes and rocking leathers like a wild Viking |
| My man who just came home, and some are going up |
| Fiends up in the alley, sippin Balley fucking throwing up |
| Keep your mind straight, focus on the prize |
| Always diving into thighs, blowing smoke into the skies |
| Bronsonelli the problem, we got the party reeking |
| Never see us starving, all my people hardly speaking |
| When it’s time, though, we form into a single file |
| Spray the fucking ballcourt without hitting a single child |
| Hop in the Beamer, Pigeon popping the nina |
| Getting top in a steamer, scoping rock in a Tina |
| Hooker, that type of looker eat the pussy from the back |
| Take the children to the school, baking cookies, serving packs all day |
| Know the verbal, is Oscar-winning |
| You cop a squat to piss in, only focused on them rocks that glisten |
| Suppositories in the ass of you, the green Fila with a Horsey how this |
| motherfucking bastard do |
| Bet the crib that you ain’t fucking with this grown man |
| I’ll E. Honda a thousand, slap you with the whole hand |
| Sex a dime, herbally, a blessed time |
| Check the rhyme motherfucker, better recognize |
| This for my people making sales until they back hurt |
| See the beast on the creep, they let the Mac squirt |
| Bitch on the backs, that do the dippies on the bikes, and |
| Loud pipes and rocking leathers like a wild Viking |
| My man who just came home, and some are going up |
| Fiends up in the alley, sippin Balley fucking throwing up |
| Keep your mind straight, focus on the prize |
| Always diving into thighs, blowing smoke into the skies |
| The eyes slanted from the origami, I roll a quarter of the water |
| Near the border, where you oughta find me |
| The Tamborine Man pumping while the Tyson burning |
| Air Tech Challenge, clay court, checks balance |
| Stay endorsing that weak shit, my team spit |
| That mean shit, like stepping in some fiend’s shit |
| Now you sick to your stomach because you stunted |
| Word got fronted, another motherfucking jerk confronted |
| Post pattern, Lonnie threw the loaf at 'em |
| Flushing, motherfucker, keep a toast up by the gold Saturn |
| Little doulas on the block we tell 'em «go stab 'em» |
| Relieve him of his shoes, it’s easier to toe tag 'em' |
| Carhartt sets and Horseys like the Preakness |
| Bronson love a freak bitch, dining on that Greek dish |
| That’s the a-hole, all my people AWOL |
| Cash inside the case and now the judges want to play ball |