Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Frida, artist - Armand Hammer. Album song Shrines, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 04.06.2020
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Backwoodz Studioz
Song language: English
Frida |
I slip, I slide, I lift, I’m a mover |
I ride, I whip, I been steppin' on cracks, momma’s hip |
I slip, I slide, I lift, I’m a mover |
I ride, I whip, I been steppin' on cracks, momma’s hip |
Neck, back broke, had to double back, mainstay |
Only lip, brain state |
Off the whip, gotta bump, gotta say |
I been down by the law long |
Ain’t got the time, know you wanna holla back |
Same number, new number |
Same nigga, new nigga |
Don’t be talking out your back |
To your partner, to your family, to your nigga sitting pretty |
Don’t be talking 'bout your racks |
I done proved every bar, every bar |
I’m a source, let’s not talk about the raps |
I’m about to hop the pond, get some pounds, get some pounds |
I ain’t talking 'bout the whip (skrt, skrt) |
Curb side, my low level bird eye |
If I’m not hitting licks with the missus |
Talking bidness with my nerve, why? |
Word, aye? |
Let me get a pack of reds, pack of papers, Now & Laters, it’s a herb eye |
Suddenly you hand me the itching sweet lies |
And right now, yeah, pearls before swine |
But the swine’s too deep for bitter melon |
Then follow in the secret recipe |
Livery cab floating, heat high |
Window cracked, moist, open, curb side, bean pie |
Wild black, pithy slogan, paid tithe, large tax |
Here’s hoping we sly, they lax, they lacking |
Billy Ocean, high tide |
Speed traps, wasted motion, poke the ride |
Feedbacks, sofa boating, laser scoping, quarter bribes |
Kneecaps |
Somebody tell him he won’t ever play again |
It’s over |
(You got your whole life ahead of you son, nothing' to be ashamed of) |
Saved by a good guy with a gun just stolen |
Graves but they don’t have names so it kept going |
Go crazy, you trying' to figure it out, just stay in the moment |
Stay in the moment |
Livery cab floating' |
That buck that bought the bottle coulda struck the lotto |
Sounds tight, but ring hollow |
That’s nobody’s wife, that’s Frida Kahlo, that’s Frida Kahlo |
Flights like Rollo, pescado, I make a water swallow |
That buck that lost the lotto coulda bought a fucking bottle |
A hundred fifty roses in an ocean of milk |
Light leaped on the camera, smoke how it feel |
Ooh, I got you open |
Out the box for your mulch garden, coach pardon |
Power harnessed, powder harden to rock |
That was catharsis, from the starship |
Face down on the carpet |
Ooh, and the arcs twist |
Was it a swoon or a target of the archer |
Departures, arrivals, left foot on tight rope |
Crows peck my eyes closed |
I heard you niggas was manifesting' |
Kissing' between the thighs on the boardwalk |
Cross talk, ecstasy, voices dragged out by the tide |
Bouncing' back, found a jetty on the grind |
Blood in my eye, I’m doing' quite fine |
Next to me, far from yours, true |
Nothing’s sacred 'til I made it so |
Which way is up? |
Still got a ways to go |
Oh |