![Cookin' keys - Army of the Pharaohs, Reef The Lost Cauze, Planetary](https://cdn.muztext.com/i/32847534090723925347.jpg)
Date of issue: 29.10.2020
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Cookin' keys |
I’m in the kitchen cooking up bananas |
Cameras on the roofs with the police scanners |
By any means I’m a get these papers |
Ride with a nigga or catch these vapours |
Smooth melodic, cool water with butters on |
Got beef with a nigga, save that for another song |
Paz on point so he putting his brothers on |
Steez still the same, get you murked by a gutter john |
Head in the streets cause the whip is spacious |
Benz stretched out legs feel like a spaceship |
Cheques ain’t clear, I’m hitting y’all with the facts |
If the cheque never came I’d hit your mom and a cap |
Got the streets on smash, key notes on wax |
Hundred pack on iTunes trying to make cream back |
Yeah, the key’s cooked and the bricks is stovetop |
It’s Chef Boyardee flipping nicks on your whole block |
Yeah, born in the coldest winter, live and I die a sinner |
And while I’m here I’m hustling, get paper with my niggas |
Last of a dying breed, Pharaoh clique in your section |
Before I leave my rest, kiss my wiz, load my weapon |
Yeah that’s my right hand man, that fifty cal chrome |
Off-safety when I roam, I ain’t never alone |
Won’t catch a nigga slipping, won’t catch a nigga dipping |
Cause I done mastered my high, you out your mind tripping |
Yeah you can come and try, won’t be the smartest move |
My bitch pull the hammer, make it do what it do |
Hustler, a son of one, bitch I’m a son of one |
My money it got right, copped me another gun |
These punk bitches get the bozak the gas face |
I feel like Earnhardt in his last race |
This last lap in this game, I’m a hit the throttle |
Syze, we celebrate new life, hit this bottle |
Plan, I think the situation’s getting hairy |
We make them say the Our Father and their Hail Mary |
Scary how niggas turn Judas, no trust |
I take it back to 5−6 when it was only us |
Snakes slither in the grass in the killing field |
So I manoeuvre through them by sitting in a bigger wheel |
You’s a small time hustler, I’m a bigger deal |
And that shit you spit will be the shit that get you killed |
Ready for war, I’m in it for the long haul |
Throwing a molotov sidearm |
Yeah, holding my fort with my pipes drawn |
I kill everything when this mic’s on, believe it |
Yo f-u-c-k-f-b-I cops, you niggas don’t like my shit |
I tell them niggas suck a dirty dick with gonorrhea on the tip |
I’m getting money courtesy of your bitch |
Nigga it’s the Army Of The Pharaohs, we hood American Idols |
You don’t like us? |
You can suck my dick |
I got a long rope and an oxy if you feeling suicidal |
See that window? |
Hop out that bitch |
Nigga think you can ease it then be it but see me not |
I’m too heated and weeded to lose it so please be hot |
They just fiending to be the most conceited team on the top |
I’m leaning to be the most meanest as Biggie and Pac |
Man these demons is dreaming for their spot |
It’s easy to see they just want to be me cause I’m hot |
So fuck my theme and my plot, smoking weed in your |
And fall dummy to that casket cause they eat at you pop |
You can believe it or not, I done sold weed to a cop |
Caught a case, banged it and ran back to the fiends on my block |
Fiends on my block? |
That’s logical, my flow is phenomenal |
I put a couple dots on your block like dominoes |
Red beaming them, I stay with my team and them |
I keep four nines in the tuck like Steve and them |
This my track, a diss like that |
Cause when you shoot like a freethrow you miss like Shaq |
I’m from Killadel county, the killers they all surround me |
I’m losing my nigga slowly Poppa Large make him proud of me |
If you see Nemi then tell your people to see me |
I’m here for the take and holding these streets down, believe me |
My nigga Balo, I know your halo is platinum |
I’m a see you at the gates, I’ll be rocking something ravishing |
The Seven Sacraments made for the sacrificial |
The baptismal of rap bristle to sacramental |
My rap essentials is murder tracks and pencils |
Gat utensils is only used for niggas acting simple |
My syllable slice niggas like a caesarean |
You killable right? |
I spit bars like a barbarian |
I never thought I’d see the day hip hop would give birth to faggots |
Mr. T mohawks and Urkel glasses, I’m from a hood where they rob cool kids |
And I can’t wear skinny jeans cause my Glock’s too big |
Yeah, I got the wildest style, death bears a childish smile |
Beat you with soap in a sock, you a Private Pyle |
I’m fear order from green onions I peel quarters |
What’s rap? |
I bump Foghat and Creedence Clearwater |
Bad moon rising, I’m howling at the bitch |
Haters baffled how he spent a thousand on the kicks |
I get thousands just to spit, fuck all the drama shit |
I don’t make statements, get bank statements and deposit slips |
And it’s always gonna be this way |
C-notes like study hall in tenth grade |
To this day I fuck bitches and get paid |
What’s piff? |
I got the green monster like Fenway |
Artist lyrics: Army of the Pharaohs
Artist lyrics: Reef The Lost Cauze
Artist lyrics: Planetary
Artist lyrics: Doap Nixon