Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Detroit, artist - Bronze Nazareth. Album song Bronzestrumentals Vol. 1, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 03.08.2009
Record label: Babygrande
Song language: English
Detroit |
Yo, yo, turn my shit up a little bit, man |
Yeah, like right there and shit |
Yo, my impacts that fracture bones and pierce stones |
Reports by Peter Jennings, on your desk when the sun arose |
That’s deep like a fall from heaven, the call from your reverand |
Stranded in Baghdad, aggressive as keg blast |
Silent as sounds as thrusts from a shank stab |
Move in waves like a puma’s shoulder blade |
I amaze, I’m amazed, find your ways through the minor haze |
Photographic chapters from a pall pit |
Write on the walls of my mind, inside my skull pit |
Piss cloudy like London skies, I wonder why |
I don’t drive that jet black four five |
Who can fuck with me on the table of elements |
Hand me a mic and I’ll melt MC’s irrevelant |
Tentaments and projects, throwing up my logo |
I rhyme degrees equivalent to breathing an inferno |
Slow burn, running dues and mics, my turn |
I carry sound barriers, that’s none of your concern |
I flip moods like nuns with guns, goons and good |
The hero disposition, superhero with a hood |
Battle the best of them, ignore the rest of them |
Killed about a million MC’s, maybe less of 'em |
Then my dogs taught me, cover my tracks |
When it’s war time, with more rhymes, to counter attack |
My word play, similar to shit in Iraq |
Get blown off the map with no chance to fight back |
Man down, chip a tooth biting my style |
Had a lock the same before, yo kid, what’s up now? |
I creep low, pull heat slow out with heat throw |
I teach the seeds through you, leak if you need to |
Proceed to build, far cathedrals where trees grew |
My thoughts are jagged, slice helmets in Hebrew |
I watch the hands turn, counter clockwise |
So I can look back on the future and learn |
I told you lines small as spines, jam knives, rush revolvers |
I’m tough smothered in teflon marauders |
A world’s mother, carry Atlas on my back |
Throw a shank through your fuel tank, crash ya plane wax |
Roots up, come through masked and blue truck |
Still mashing, any shape, form or fashion |
Outlasting, all those, that profile and pose |
Like hoes, in the front row, of one of my shows |
Phillie oh so, rapper slash hustler, kid |
Ain’t a man alive touching the kid, get off that |
And into some shit, trust me, I’m as ill as it get |
Go for your guns, prepare to be crushed, trust none |
I’m a man of many hats, black hoodies, no furs |
Want a chaffeur that blow herb all on the curb |
When the sun shine, I want mine, away from heaven |
Spitting lazer beam schemes that’ll blind ya vision |
My dividens, medallion cartel suited pipes |
Don’t shoot the dice if you ain’t nice, follow the script |
Rust Detroit, a warfield of concrete trenches |
The bullet holes, ski masks and backdoor entrance |
This is it, I wrote it, a poet lauriete |
With a semi loaded tech, when I speak, rhymes eject |
No love, but a slug, for these pussies, try’nna push me |
Over the edge, and out of my head, pronounced head |
But, we don’t die, we expand to foreign lands |
Come back with rich for the fam, and break 'em down in grams |
For the street team, loyalty, guns and roses |
To hand out the casaulties of war, we soldiers |
Full of that hydro smoke, it’s over |
With gats going brat-brrr-rat, where ya killas at? |