| I can’t scratch, cause I’m drunk
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| I got bad teeth and my gums are bleeding
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| Come and fucking get me, motherfucker
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| Yeah, break, start the song now, fucker
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| We traveling the missle, weaving through your cornfields
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| Leaving behind a trail of amateur porn and orange peels
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| Navagatin' through this basement, that masquerades
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| As a nation, practising my acetate masturbation
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| Watching the expressions on the faces
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| Of them ones designated to be the queens, kings, and aces
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| How many miles can you put on one sole
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| Before the smile starts to blend into one big bullet hole
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| Shoot through it as a unit, with the best of my crew
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| Bumping melodies and memories too, my head’s killing me, ooh
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| Stomach empty, my bladder is full
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| Two-year-old son on Jaybird’s phone cryin', you missing me
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| And I’m starving, I’ll bite your arm off
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| Sabertooth Tiger, run the night with the sharp claws
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| In your backyard just to fuck with your guard dog
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| Throw a brick through your shit and cut the alarm off
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| Bitch
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| Fuck yes, I do my best to take advantage in bouts
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| With one hand over the mouth, still managin' to shout
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| There’s more said within the lines on your forehead
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| Than they could ever try to fine-print on the inside of that warhead
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| Cross country, like a little lost junkie
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| Make them hot and jumpy, trying to get that God money
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| Steering the van through the blizzards, the fanfare
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| Pivot when we visit, spit victim if you stand there
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| Take a map of this picture, throw a dart at it, that’s where
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| We took a room back full of kids and threw our heart at it
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| Angry like a hostage, kicking like a little bitch in one of Dibbs’s mosh pits
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| Shifting through your city limits trying to find the raw shit
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| Thread a needle with it, and weave a world of heads together, till we get 'em
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| car sick
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| Face full of war paint, strapped, ready for action
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| Battle cracks heading, trying to seek the satisfaction of the captain
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| Climbed over the side, closed his eyes
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| Took a dive into his fame, inspiration for staying alive
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| Swam to the shore, stepped upon land
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| Walked up to a whore, grabbed her by the hand
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| And said
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| Let the wheels spin, let the road shake
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| Let the speakers blow
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| Let the line in, let the kids play
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| Let the people know
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| Let the roof burn, let the girls love
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| Let the heat flow
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| Let the world turn, let the curtains up
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| Cats Van Bags, Yo
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| Lock eyes with a thousand people at the same time
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| They minds believing this
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| My style of graffiti is
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| Squeezing just the midwest sweat out of my shirt
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| And leaving with my life essence embedded in your dirt
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| We work, move, and hustle with the rest of the gypsies
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| Spoon-feed these issues to a new school of fishies
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| Swimming through a hazy shade of passion
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| Here they come, the Hazleton has-been, and his chaplain
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| Yeah, that’s them, the migrants, seasonal workers
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| The finest imperial wordsmiths on the circuit
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| Two million smiles and runnin', stomping, trying to flee the heat
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| Turn around, shooting at the monster till his knees are weak
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| They call me Jesus Freak, I came to listen
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| Then I save you, then I make you my favorite position
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| Chasin' this pigeon down the street towards the banks
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| Just in case my traffic receives jeeps and tanks
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| And we wander through this soul, so let it be known
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| Mama I don’t know if I’mma ever be home
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| The revolution won’t have any distribution
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| I love my son and my music so I gotta keep it moving
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| Like |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Cats Van Bags , by - ATMOSPHERE. Song from the album Seven's Travels, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп