Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song 5 Fingers of Death, artist - Big L. Date of issue: 30.05.2011
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
5 Fingers of Death |
| «Where are you?» |
| «Hey, there you are!» |
| «How does it feel to know you only have a few more seconds left to live?» |
| («Big L» — Cut and scratched) |
| I stay jeweled up, pockets swelled up from banks I held up |
| Plenty bitch-ass niggas Big L stuck |
| I never catch cold feet when I hold heat |
| We roll deep in a triple black dark tinted old jeep |
| I catch a fag three o’clock in the morn |
| On the block all alone and put a Glock to his dome |
| Tell him, «Give it up quick, you nitwit, don’t try to get slick |
| Or I’m a let this four-fifth spit and leave your shit split» |
| Prick, it ain’t nothing decent about me |
| A true thug for real, you can ask the precinct about me |
| A rap junkie, don’t try to play me like some flunky |
| Jewels be chunky, pockets lumpy, attitude grumpy |
| Mad niggas be fronting a lot |
| Popping mad shit, tryna be something they not |
| Your faggot ass better stick to dancing, don’t even look at me |
| I might break your jaw just for glancing, that’s right |
| In '97 Harlem kids is blowing |
| And we don’t trick, we’ll let a bitch starve till her ribs are showing |
| («Lord Finesse» — Cut and scratched) |
| Heated divine mastermind that turn nickels to dimes |
| The authentic genuine that’s out to shine |
| The cool cat, the true mack, the smooth raps |
| Chickens be like, «Who that?» |
| I be doing my thing, kid (True dat) |
| Forget fronting, I’m beyond that, I roll with brothers ready for combat |
| All for eye-to-eye contact |
| With skills, G, yo it’s ill see, for real B |
| Ain’t no barbecue, niggas better stop tryna grill me |
| Huh, sent that style to the essence |
| Got niggas stressing my style, pull like fluorescents |
| No question, tough type to clutch mics |
| The positive upright, I’m the «I don’t give a fuck» type |
| Expose the facts, you know the haps |
| Could go to laugh astrological, like the signs in the Zodiac |
| Your rap crew out the stack loop, word up |
| My style’s tighter than a fat bitch in a cat suit |
| Suprise G, it’s not wise see to size me |
| When I operate, it’s Smooth Sailing like Ron Isely |
| Gotta do my thing, word up (Beg ya pardon?) |
| Time to bounce, gotta skate like Tonya Harding |
| («A.G.» — Cut and scratched) |
| Yo I’m the cleverest top ten terrorist |
| Chickens ever diss they become featherless |
| Hate derelicts, certified gold medalist |
| You play fly cause I’m the most high like Everest |
| Look at all these fakes, musically you imitate the Crates |
| Won’t succeed moving at full speed with no brakes |
| Like Jake, watch me take your entourage |
| Can’t see me, I’m camoflauge and besides, I’m God |
| Mad hard like the S.A.T. |
| who have shorties |
| Caught up in the mental, watch her bless A. G |
| Evidently you still don’t know because you tempt me |
| Thought you was the boss when your fat thoughts were empty |
| Not Fat Joey Crack but still Jealous One’s Envy |
| Who sent me? |
| D.I.T.C., good and plenty |
| Like the doctor, smoke a Spike Joint and watch «Clockers» |
| Get rude like Shabba, make moves behind my blockers |
| Crazy sickness, you want the pure, you’d better pick this |
| Bitches can’t get this, faggots remain dickless |
| («Fat Joe» — Cut and scratched) |
| Before we get started, let’s talk about these coward-hearted |
| MC’s that claim to be true O.G.'s |
| And war specialists forever bust your guns on the sack of shit |
| But when the beef come, get on the ___ before I protest your licks |
| You know the deal, I come with nothing but the real |
| Certified pejente, recognize mi gente |
| Whether East Coast or West Coast, I’ll make 'em all strip naked Bitch niggas |
| will never get respected |
| Joey Green bagging devils up in Bowling Green for all is clean |
| Cock the 9 soon as I seen his Rolie gleam |
| You know the team, never giving a fuck |
| Laying thick in the cut, get your shit laced up |
| What the fuck! |
| («Diamond D» — Cut and scratched) |
| Yo I’m flipping on niggas like treys of crack |
| My raps react on your cardiac like a heart attack |
| Some niggas front for stunts |
| Who want to take a puff of the blunt and play a nigga like a chump |
| But I don’t play that shit with no chicks |
| Sucking the next nigga’s dick, moving bricks |
| I’m too slick for you high school dropouts |
| You got knocked and tried to cop out |
| Couldn’t fight when the kids pulled the mop out |
| And wails you out, writing home saying, «Bail me out» |
| Little small time, fucked up when you called mine |
| D Squared, one of the Greatest of All Times |
| Yeah, D.I.T.C. |
| representing for the '97, word life |