Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Terror Death Camp, artist - Action Bronson. Album song Well Done, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 21.11.2011
Record label: Dcide
Song language: English
Terror Death Camp |
| Queens, New York |
| Flushing shit |
| (We backkkk againnnnn) |
| That’s right |
| Yo |
| Sour smoke out the nasal |
| The Pad Thai noodle topped off with basil |
| Sistine Chapel rapper, I’m here to blaze you |
| Pop off material, get laid up n sprayed up just like arterial |
| Clementine nine, dripping venereal |
| Linguine linguistics that left my verbal lesson saucy |
| Send a message, leave you sleeping next to headless horsey |
| Play the plaintiff, I’mma slide off to prior engagements |
| Let you die in the basement/Toast wine from the time of the ancient- |
| Turkish warriors, cobblestones in Macedonia |
| Albanians in Shkup… never living by the book |
| We fill the jails in France, Uzes and Italy |
| Never do dirt on our own land |
| That shit’s forbidden, G |
| Hoxha singing from the top of the Xhamia |
| Pickled peppers at the picnic table |
| Feta cheese, perfect Flia |
| Straight outta Dukagjin |
| One of the illest places |
| No one’s smiling |
| There’s only drunken men with killer faces |
| I’m known for simmering the mean gravy |
| Gleam crazy, my mind’s hazy |
| New York made me |
| The most official, to holster pistol |
| Trim the fat, scrape the gristle |
| Meyhem Lauren will make your family miss you |
| I’ll gladly press the trigger button |
| If you press an issue |
| Whether it’s beef or beats |
| I try to make a casket fit you |
| We’ll fuck you up then fuck you up |
| And then come back to get you |
| And do that two more times |
| We call that shit a triple triple |
| My flow is typhoon rap, it’s deeper than an ocean ripple |
| Our hollow tips will hit you |
| Leave you with an altered nipple |
| Slumped over saying «Lord, please have mercy» |
| Or play the G, now we made hot flames burst me |
| Queens veteran, dressed like tennis men |
| Back block medicine, slap chop venison |
| Knock, knock, let us in |
| My whole clique’s equipped to shoot though |
| My army got more fucking arms than a can of pulpo |
| Brownsville’s Jesus, white and blue Adidas |
| Got more knowledge than them Poor Righteous Teachers |
| Clarence Smith, Stan Smith, 13X's |
| Some will overstand but common men never receive the message |
| Concepts like I’m Frank Butcher |
| Neighborhood pusher, 62's through ya sub woofer |
| Unca nunca for the pitbulls with red noses |
| Wet bogies dipped in shit to stop bodies from decomposing |
| Cool, calm and collected |
| Keep my composure |
| All my business in black and white like negative exposures |
| Keep a Polaroid for the posers |
| A picture’s worth a thousand words |
| So lock and load up |
| You don’t know me from a hole in a commode, bruh |
| I am the shit, just ask your bitch |
| I bet she know, yup |
| It’s St. Maffew |
| Truffles in that duffle |
| Princess in the catsuit |
| This is dope fiend rap |
| Have a nigga leaning sideways |
| Frankie Blue Eye shit |
| I do it my way |
| Legendary, scary, February Valentine murder |
| Ike Turner, gun butt with a nice burner |
| Bluey spot guzzler |
| Long Island Tea sipper |
| Mind of a killer |
| Trenchcoat Mafia nigga |
| Hollow point slinger |
| Smile while I’m flipping fingers |
| Angels and demons |
| Mellowed out, Stylistic singer |
| Corner store postup |
| Backstreet wanderer |
| Butter your toast up |
| Tight pussy conqueror |
| Smart aleck, talk back, type of nigga |
| Fuck you |
| Disrespect your mother, your brother |
| Father and son, too (everybody!) |
| Long live the music cause it’s part of my blood |
| But how long can I stay breathing |
| Only God is my judge |
| Through the lights, cameras and action |
| Glammer, glitters and gold |
| Every legend repping my era |
| Carries part of my soul |
| (90's, nigga) |