Lyrics Dry Ice - Armand Hammer

Dry Ice

Yeah I was in on the plot, but you still got a fiend shot
Elections over, but the robocalls never stop
Negotiations broke down, they sendin' Robocop
I don’t know nothin', I don’t call a lot
Answerin' the phone like you know I want sun’thin'
(hey, you not wrong)
She said come inside if you cummin', so we bet the farm
Anything I ever got was on the arm
Anything I ever got was on my own
how I watch the throne
Type of kid who never want to be at home
Be in the park shootin' hoops alone
In the dark, red flag, but what you gon' really do for 'em
He already gone
Once they put him in the whole, he was ready for 'em
Submit the verse long form to put it on Twitter for you silly niggas
Walked past homeless like cry me a river
No question 'bout it doc, I’m gettin' sicker
When she said the magic word, definitely got bigger
No question 'bout it, I’m definitely gettin' sicker
Smoke like dry ice, erry line is a mirror
Try as they might, never see him clearer
What he most wanted she wouldn’t give
Took e’rything else, he the type to do it big
It’s like an ocean out there
Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under though
Under the undertow
It’s like an ocean out there
Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under though
Under the undertow
It’s like an ocean out there
Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under though
Under the undertow
It’s like an ocean out there
Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under though
Under the undertow
It’s like an ocean out there
Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under though
Under the undertow
It’s like an ocean out there
Sometimes I wonder how I keep from going under though
Under the undertow
The universe is unbothered
What’s the matter if I murder a few rap bloggers
History told by a conqueror
Rounded the remains to the nearest tenth
Tell me how he grew grain like it’s his
Leave no prints
Skin to skin
Wickedness in high places
Watch ya chair
Swordplay, bounty of war, red sauce is port based
Storm chasin', tryin' to melt my face on my born day
Shape of things to come
Practicin' for a world where they don’t exist
Pigs that shoot hoops with the kids
Two months later slappin' cufflinks on they wrists
Runnin' off script
Pop, smoke, sniff
Psychotropic dose
Pockets open
Swear to no one
I know oceans
I got no lungs