Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Cookin' keys, artist - Army of the Pharaohs. 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 |