| Where all the good songs have gone
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| WCBS FM
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| Rocking all green outfits, the budder look like Sun Chips
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| Suck my son’s dick, we in the street like a bum’s shit
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| Bury me on Kissena I’m riding low like a centipede in the Beamer
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| Million-dollar belt, precious facial features
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| Acid in the fucking headband, get the bedpan
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| I’m shitting on myself, and you’re the one who gotta clean it
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| While I lay there, just to get some Ray-Bans? |
| Shit
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| 800 dollars just for play pants
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| Don’t try to touch me with those AIDs hands
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| Raise my performance fee to 80 grand
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| Hipster bitches, they pussy smell like seitan
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| I’m glad I ate lamb
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| Smoke something
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| Got me fucking… got me hot in here, man
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| Fuck, bitch, ah
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| Shit, yo
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| The kid caught herpes from the Rabbi
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| Yacob from 165, with the bad eye
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| Drug deal transportation was a cab ride
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| Displayed on the mantle was a brass lion
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| Mass from Ireland, give you a casket to lie up in
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| While an Asian man play the violin
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| He was taught from age 2, never miss a note
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| Brought his sister in the bathroom to shit the coke out
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| I cop the Audi with the poke out
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| 700 thousand dollars at the smokehouse
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| Drugs in my lungs… ah, fuck
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| Fast money 'til we die, peep the resume
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| Hang-glide into the boat, get my cheddar notes
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| Keep the shotty in the leather coat
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| Motherfucker, better know
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| Fast money 'til we die, peep the resume
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| Hang-glide into the boat, get my cheddar notes
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| Keep the shotty in the leather coat
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| Motherfucker, better know
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| Many nights I shot dice in the drug den
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| My raps permeate from a thug’s pen, and love when
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| I think about my purpose in life, keep soft mouths slurping precise
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| These bitches love us
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| We named Pit Bulls after hard liquor (Hennessy!)
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| Turn the knife in the wound, make it scar thicker
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| Shit, we still wear jean shorts
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| Veteran, playing these mean sports
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| What up Dab?
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| This ain’t boom bap, homie it’s doom rap
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| And your career shit couldn’t compare with
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| Bronsoline and Laurenivici, write fly rhymes and sky dive from Mount Fiji
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| That’s word to my parachute
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| Old money still flows, last chapter loot
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| Firearms and novelty beverages
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| Keep drama riddled with hemorrhages
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| We good though |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Jackson Travolta (feat. Meyhem Lauren) , by - Action Bronson. Song from the album Blue Chips 1 & 2, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп