Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Hammer Dance , by - Araabmuzik. Song from the album For Professional Use Only, in the genre ЭлектроникаRelease date: 14.02.2013
Record label: Orchard
Song language: English
Hammer Dance |
| My real name, my rap shit |
| No made up nigga, I’m straight up, nigga |
| Still in the projects where I came up, nigga |
| On a scaffold doing ten sets of ten, getting my weight up, nigga |
| I’m no shooter, but my shooters’ll have your brain exposed |
| But I’ll shoot five in a second, homie, and break your nose |
| Talking past, I’m dead ass, I was living |
| Life fast with my pistol in the grab |
| Digging in my ass tryna finish up the last so I can sit it in a stash |
| Old E. sweat dripping from the bag |
| Milk crates sitting on the ave |
| While I’m looking left and right for them niggas with the badge |
| My mom’s dishes really had crack on 'em |
| 12 12s and I kept that shit packed for 'em, yeah they came back for 'em |
| I can paint it so vivid cause I really lived it |
| If rap fail, I stack bail, and show you how to get it! |
| I’m in the club, bottle in hand doing my two step |
| While I got my gun in my pants, call it the hammer dance |
| Bitches dancing on a nigga, when they feel the gun |
| I tell 'em we’re doing the hammer dance |
| Two steppin' with my weapon on me |
| You good? |
| I’m just checking, homie |
| Fam-a-lam, you don’t stand a chance |
| While I got this gun in my pants doing my hammer dance |
| In these LA times, I wake up on one |
| House slippers and coffee, I know the paper gon' come |
| I drop shit that make the gangstas go dumb |
| Keep a bad bitch naked like my waist with no gun |
| I’m for real, how are you? |
| Got street power, from the Watts Towers to Howard Hugh (es) |
| How would you become me? |
| I don’t do what you cowards do |
| Flip a thousand pounds of that sour dies' in a hour, dude |
| I’m out my muh’fuckin' mind |
| Fuck a punchline, salute my muh’fuckin' grind |
| Ditching feds on the regular, they’re trying to catch a predator |
| Not the Chris Hansen type, but the Danny Glover kind |
| I’m a killer, everybody know I body your audio |
| When a shotty blow, say goodbye to your barrio, you maricon |
| You don’t think that I’m about this |
| Ice grill, nigga, put your money where your mouth is |
| My real name, my rap shit |
| Fuck with Chase, but the real bank is the mattress |
| Money ain’t new to me, been getting G-stacks |
| Since Smoove B took his shawty back from rehab |
| Knife work with me, but the chrome is extra |
| Case I’m in the same taxi as the bone collector |
| Y’all rappin' 'bout models, I get hounded by 'em |
| Not a killer at all, I’m just surrounded by 'em |
| Just a real nigga, straight from my mother’s stomach |
| Ain’t enough cloth for all of us to be cut from it |
| Not decided by who totes lead |
| Cause all of us would be angels for Pujols' bread |
| Lot of hostility, hollering is killing me |
| Screaming «Over my dead body,» like it’s not a possibility |
| On my Jers' bullshit, never mind me |
| But if it’s ever problems, niggas know where to find me |