Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Luxor Temple, artist - Army of the Pharaohs. Album song In Death Reborn, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопLuxor Temple |
| The league of extraordinary gentlemen indeed |
| And proceed to take the underworld under siege |
| The most decorated, celebrated soldier on the scene |
| The most underrated, overhated nigga on my team |
| Black ops, black cops, falling on black tops |
| And I pursue chasing suspects through back blocks |
| A superhero shooting supernovas through my toaster |
| Face on a poster, hiding out in Nova Scotia |
| Break a mic over my knee, like Canseco kid |
| Still wanted on the run like I’m Pecos Bill |
| Spit quicker than a six shooter off of the hip |
| With thicker chicks in Bermuda blowin' coke off the dick |
| Living the life of a pharaoh, in this modern day Babel |
| Fuckin' too many bitches could leave a nigga sterile |
| My whole battalion, snatchin' Olympic gold medallions |
| Like old Italians, season they gravy with the scallions |
| Official Pistol Gang click it and spark |
| I swear y’all mother fuckers made bitchin' an art |
| Vampire, y’all mother fuckers stick through the heart |
| I don’t rap over beats Vinnie rip 'em apart |
| I smell fear, y’all was bitch from the start |
| Y’all are sweeter than a fructose kiss in the dark |
| I was here first, I’m an aboriginal’s thought |
| I have poison on the pen like an indigenous dart |
| My name Boxcutter, I'm about to christen 'em, lord |
| Like a jail dude ima stick a shiv in 'em, lord |
| Throw a left hook then I take a piss on 'em, lord |
| Salt, pepper, ketchup — everything I get in the store |
| They say this Siciliano is wild nice |
| I’m a keep 'em feedin' every block like I’m fried rice |
| Stupid rapper you could get punched in the eye twice |
| You could never walk in my shoes or live my life |
| This is tricknology, trick trickle, triple six |
| Blood droplets in optics, I’m sick I’ll slit your wrists |
| I’m wickeder than wicked witches or the wickedest men |
| I scribble on period pads, get a whiff of this pen |
| I make pussies pop like ping pongs or slutty whores |
| Muddy floors from the bodies I buried in bloody wars |
| Blood in, blood out, let 'em bleed out |
| Radar got 'em, I spotted 'em, shot at rocket at 'em |
| Crushed 'em and forget 'em, in bottomless pits |
| Places where the goblins exist, we gotta get chips |
| So we plot to rob all the rich, I’m rotten, you bitch |
| How you think I’m rockin' these kicks |
| I’m kickin' it with Amon-Ra inside a rocketin' ship |
| This is power of ether, I’m like a towering creature |
| Who figured out how to defeat ya, by devouring speakers |
| I’m the Pope of the pompous, smokin' dope with the Pontiff |
| Sellin' coke to Pocahontas, I poked in the Oval Office |
| I’m a dragon, exhalin' the flames, killin', impalin' the lames |
| Demons are still in my brain, the evilest militant gang |
| Pharaoh clique, talented — notorious |
| I’ll bust your motherfuckin' shit slap boxing with oven mitts |
| I’m rugged with… words |
| Cops they don’t want me murderin' the locals but they (but what?) |
| Let me do it like Motorhead vocals, listen |
| Right brain, left-handed, I’m a perfect mess |
| Mic’s flames, don’t touch it, it could burn your flesh |
| I’d rather steer my Wagoneer past the pier |
| To a certain death than have to hear about your rap career |
| Got it? |
| Everything I spit’s got a golden seal |
| Authentic furniture flow, yeah I’m sofa real |
| Your day job is the only time you load the steel |
| General Zod motherfucker, make opponents kneel |
| I try to kill 'em off and make sure that they die |
| But they keep coming back and I (Don't know why!) |
| Flash the hammer at you in front of the nail shop (Is he crazy?) |
| I want you dead so bad I’ll sleep on them jail cots (I'll do it!) |
| You in the hospital bed, I ain’t satisfied |
| I need you on the coroner table, ribs open wide |
| Die for my respect til I’m laying on the pavement |
| Knowing I got a job in Hell narrating for Satan |
| They say I’m already that, nightmares, where Freddy at? |
| Cuttin' fingers off until you tell me where the 'fetti at (Where's it at?) |
| What good is alarm systems and guns |
| If I blow up your house, like a petroleum spout |
| Lock the coordinates in, fucker what I gotta aim it for? |
| Bitch ass rapper I was the first to pop your training bra (Fagget) |
| Stay away from my dough, it ain’t gluten-free |
| My label got college interns that’ll shoot for me |
| Bitch, boy you just a toy to me |
| Strangle you with an extension wire and handle a bitch boy accordingly |
| When I spit a little, let me excuse myself |
| Before the Crown Royal dribble and Crypt drive me to the hospital |
| Ritalin couldn’t calm me, we toastin' to the Army |
| Capitol Hill, trill, man I’m shootin' at your car keys |
| Couldn’t see the car seat, we had to pull the babies out |
| Bomb! |
| Took the lady out, this what being zany bout |
| M-80 shady out, shady like Em with the crazy mouth |
| Fuck you, pay me — this a paper route |
| Outerspace cakin' out, out front of Outback Steakhouse |
| Waitin' for haters to pull them plates out |
| Everything you got — mine, Everybody hot — I’m |
| Ready to machete them, 'cause petty niggas drop dimes |
| Scoop enough coins though, rock this funky joint flow |
| Wise and intelligent, enough to let the horns blow |
| Back like a cornrow, with pourin' liquor, so I |
| In death reborn alive and I (Don't know why!) |
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