| Even the hardest rhymers know I got desire and heart
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| Like John Starks when «The Dunk» had the Garden
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| Wilding, triumph was short-lived
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| But the moment is timeless
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| Words hold weight like consignment, never break your silence
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| If you face indictment, take it like a man
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| A thousand deaths is a lot of sweat
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| Satan’s fire rages like the 80's
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| Tyson blazin souls of those that say we came from science
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| Ain’t as wise as they like us to believe, think about it
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| What made us conscious?
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| A greater power gave us all the gift of life
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| Be grateful for it before the creator calls you
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| Witnessing a great performance, I ain’t conforming
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| I crush those who want it then weigh the powder of they persona
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| On the highest scale of rhyming they’ve encountered
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| A peak harder to reach than Himalayan mountains
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| People say I’m calmer, I consider it evolving
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| I’m sick of facing charges And my mental game is stronger
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| As rain falls on my executive trench
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| With the waist belt
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| Base dealt make your face melt
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| Toast to fortune, diamonds in the coffin
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| Pinky extended, getting twisted like a blender
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| Grown man rap, grown man pockets
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| Never catch a statutory, eating cacciatore
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| You like a scungill', peel when you see steel
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| Me, I’ll squeeze it til it’s empty, then I refill
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| We sitting, playing gin rummy
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| Chips of hash like the Rock of Gibraltar
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| Cop my pops a Porsche
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| Gun metal with the rocket launcher
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| You getting wetter when I pop it off
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| I got bitches making salsa sauce with they blouses off
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| Shorty shoot the gun soft like a mouse’s cough
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| Four hundred dollars what it cost for an ounce of broth
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| Collect the paper, then I’m bouncing off
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| That’s me
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| As I mastermind, craft rhymes made of heroin
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| Head nod, lines on a higher echelon
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| With fly epilogue, Gore-tex belt checker
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| Bought three Hecklers, the sun gleam on my complexion
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| Completion, eclectic in fleeces
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| Expensive oils and greases, slacks with the creases
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| Black Jesus in Moncler geeses, sample cheeses
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| Antique hammer squeezing
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| My grammar like ham, shit is seasoned
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| Bitches from Greek to Polynesian
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| Wallabeein' out in Sweden
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| While I be out for green like a vegan
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| Stay thorough, decorated in metal
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| Chain yellow, grape flavor cigarellos
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| Days are mellow, Good fellows put change on your sombrero
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| Slugs out the gun bellow, hit the falsetto
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| I twist chickens in the six-inch stilettos
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| Use the elbow to split your wig
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| Male chauvinistic pig
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| Fuck a nigga bitch like ol' Kells did to Mr. Bigg
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| But I don’t keep it on the low, I blow the shit up
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| If he show up at my crib, that old fucker get cut
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| Nigga, I throw a left hook at your grandpop
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| While Chef Action Bronson cook up them lamb chop
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| After that, we gonna eat a rapper for dessert
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| Mega got the blood of emcees on a napkin in his shirt
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| You’re acting like you’re berserk
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| Nigga, that’ll get you hurt
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| Dragged all over the floor, be a tragedy for sure
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| They thought I might have fell off, so I had to get to work
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| Show em how it goes down
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| When I put the pronouns and them adjectives to work
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| Ah, niggas get murked
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| The perk? |
| I think I’m blessed cause I’m eye-seeing them
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| Roc Mars said it’s cause I got bars and I’m nicer than them
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| They all right, I ain’t as biased as him
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| Nah, I’m lying; |
| them niggas drier than psoriasis skin
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| Lyrically, I’m a messiah to them
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| Sing em a rockabye
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| It’s gonna be Mega Action happening when you Roc with Sai
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| That’s M.A.R.S., motherfucker, and I’m not gone lie
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| Hip-Hop is something we came to occupy
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| Tell em why |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song MARS (feat. Cormega, Roc Marciano, Saigon), artist - Action Bronson. Album song Blue Chips 1 & 2, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп