Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Pergamum, artist - Armand Hammer. Album song Rome, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 02.11.2017
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Backwoodz Studioz
Song language: English
Pergamum |
I woke up thinkin' about this planet being wiped away |
Well, not, maybe not the planet 'cause, 'cause the Earth takes care of itself |
But, but us |
And then, uh, I turn on the radio and heard-heard Russia was fittin' send |
rockets into space to blow up satellites, knock out power grids here |
I suck my teeth and kiss |
Seven horrors of Babylon |
Scratched in the palm of a vagabond |
Matter and form |
I’m at where I belong |
Dedicated to babies who came feet first |
James Byrd, drag along |
Back 'em off, blasted arm |
Shrapnel gloss glass and steel thunderclap |
Run it back Gotham, necessary toxins |
Block bent, jot what I feel is my heart spin |
Commonwealth, living wages, human income |
Whichever way the wind front |
Earth either in a pair of velvet creepers |
Like body Dreamwork |
Spirit weaver do your research |
Every bar is a keyword, not ether |
Kill up the rework |
Loop back and reverse, until new unexpected patterns with the intention to |
destabilize language to really get at the core of what’s happening |
Tools of war plus sacrament |
Take, eat this my body |
Take, eat this my body |
At the mercy of forces which can be explained, extrapolated and feared |
No, we don’t say that word around here |
No, we don’t say that word around here |
Mark on the door is home spared |
Poems, prayers |
Was it a hoax or did they really disappear? |
My folks been more than aware |
Year, after year, after year, after year, after year, after year, after year |
We all thrive out here, player |
Player |
Well said, hear, hear |
Well, I for one |
A long and storied history of fake thuggin' |
Wasn’t around for boss mean muggin' |
2Pac went to art school, but look at the grave they dug him |
And then you shoot your cousin |
Six feet deep fo you realize you bug it |
Rats with the cat drug in, but love it |
On the headstone, but she at home dug in |
Stock bones piled in the pot, bubblin' |
Effort’ly dance from swings of the truncheon |
She said, «I'm not fittin' to have a drug dealer for a husband |
End of discussion,» and it was |
Regardless, the racket, Slazenger |
Darkens the fifty-seven passenger |
Dungeons walls was his calendar |
Lucy in the sky was the Challenger |
A balance in all things, yes |
Still half surprised half impressed at who still cashin' cheques |
Like who the fuck still smokin' shwag sess |
Smilin' in hospital beds wearin' a vest, nigga sick |
They really wanted to be nighty-six |
Talk about trauma |
And if that blew up, they come to your talk with the lamas |