| I’m a king with no wings, but we can box in one
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| I’m toxic, spun off the marksmen epiclotist
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| Ex-robbers, vile toting, swinging totem pole
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| Cobra ax flow, niggas spinning jacks slow
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| Government remote control, my brain power
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| Rain shower, man and gods, what’s the odds
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| Even I’m wrong, I’m still right, get large
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| Seven Wise, hitman, hit squad, dip bars
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| In golden jars, I speak a sunshine flow
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| Throw a drumline slow, like gumbo
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| Aiyo, my music testifies, and if it’s not 5 mics
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| It’s atleast ten gongs
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| Throw a rope up to God, maybe you’ll climb this high
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| In the tree house, I’m tree’d out, speak about
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| Something, to think about a bleed out
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| Flee to my house, hold a tree to my mouth, inhale it’s
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| Brain tsunami, hope your chain and all your property
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| Is enough to keep you, on top of the water
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| Shallow niggas sink deep, and there’s sharks in the water
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| Who run the soundboards, from here to abroad
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| While ya’ll niggas sleep as if the Lord had called, uh Yeah… yeah, that’s who it is Yo, Bronze, you gon’get a gold medal on this one
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| Yo, Kruger, I got my thinking cap on, listen.
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| Look, I will murk you holmes
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| I’m Muhammad Ali, I will hurt you Holmes
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| You ain’t nice as hell, you a Comic View rapper
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| You should write for Chappelle (GZA: «Konichiwa bitches!»)
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| Let’s spit the pie fucking three ways
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| Now we got enough gwop up to pay DJ’s
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| Punch rappers, blood in they mouth, sell it on eBay
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| Niggas got G5's now up in the PJ’s
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| Wanna pull wool over eyes, go get a sheep
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| And the G’s shall inherit the streets over police
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| Cop jars of that white widow, write it on a memo
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| Internet thugs, they get thrown outta they windows
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| Fight club, I grab mics with Nike gloves
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| Inside night pubs, we smash light bulbs
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| I break niggas up like glass dishes, I’m past vicious
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| Before I bury ya ass, any last wishes?
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| Dry ice, I’m rockin’ya man into fried rice
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| Fucking with Bo, you could die twice
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| The game is fixed, they pulled the same tricks on Zab
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| Hop outta cabs, right in front of Sacks, Fifth Ave.
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| Fuck Bloomberg, new law, marrying fags
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| You should get a job in Pathmark, carrying bags
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| Spit hotter than a day in Nevada, with a mink on Father, slash corporate, without the pink on Ya’ll dudes got a «problem»
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| And I ain’t talking 'bout Mathematics and his album
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| I’m famous, amongst the streets in all projects
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| The Black Rick Rubin when I’m putting out a project
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| See me on Canal, plus cursing in my sentence
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| Smiling, medicaid paid for the dentist
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| A dollar goes a long way from spending pennies
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| Might wind up broke surrounded by them gimme’s
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| Loose ball, you can chirp, you can Boost call
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| Shots rain out, from the top of the roof, ya’ll
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| Smoke screen, I smoke green, light a Dutch up…
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| What’s that, diesel, son?
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| I’m cold blooded, Rick James, up in my veins
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| Hurricane, hurri’wind done flooded
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| Besides the shows, online sales and features
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| I’ve done made more money this year than teachers
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| I hit the smoke, stack it like my bitch’s batter
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| Might shatter like pipe dreams, splatter ya gray matter
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| When things get rough, pull something from my sleeve
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| Longer than Joker gun, keep hope alively
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| With a smoking gun, I discipate a Crimson gate
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| Escape and scrape the fishscale straight, move the plate
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| High maneuvers, blue street pie for dinner
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| Consider a sinner, simmer my lines like roaches shimmer
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| Leftover bread winner, a lively dead winter
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| Since my placenta had adventure grammar
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| My wild life is trife like arachnid’s trapped in amber
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| No one can shit on these schemes with pitiful means
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| Put you on the hospital beams, and audible screens
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| My possible scam, a sonogram of modern man
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| Harbor, G. Carver plans, why do we sit in stance? |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song More Than Gold , by - Bronze Nazareth. Song from the album The Great Migration, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп