| Yeah, nigga, I’m ill; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor
|
| Nigga, I’m ill; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| Yes, I’m gone; |
| trade my lawn for a shore
|
| Nigga, I’m ill; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor
|
| Nigga, I’m ill; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| Yes, I’m gone; |
| trade my lawn for a shore
|
| Nigga, I’m ill; |
| chain still the back of a gorilla
|
| Records so sharp, DJ’s slash their finger
|
| We chop trees; |
| never yellin' «timber»
|
| Float off on leaves, cough and wheeze; |
| a Magellan drifter
|
| Off the Richter; |
| scale triple-beam, coffin lifter
|
| Subliminal seminal, often lifted
|
| Incredibly criminal, how it goes off on the discus
|
| Breakfast is my lunch; |
| the feds heard my song, now they wanna search my trunk
|
| Told 'em got that white in the sheets of that numb
|
| Photo-copied bright, I’m that sign in your palm
|
| Turned 'em zombie-white like the sickest in the morn
|
| Impregnate the song; |
| molotvs tossed, detonate engulf my blogs
|
| I take what I want, you niggas still beggin'
|
| And I don’t got no jewelry to flaunt, I bought a building
|
| Sicilians and gold Brazilians over my lap like pavilions
|
| If anyone dare touch 'em, they might as well commit 'em
|
| Bobby Steel and Bronze Nazareth; |
| combination’s too hazardous
|
| The infliction, the past descriptions, known by no-one adjectives
|
| Beyond fabulous, with small stars and asterisks
|
| While I descend from the most high, draped in star catalyst
|
| Crumbled MC’s, keep a pocket full of crumbled cheese
|
| Not a tuna fish, but I been in a can with bumble bees
|
| Raw is ill; |
| sickness can’t be cured by small pills
|
| Take large corporate checks, and cash 'em in small bills
|
| Keep the gat in a shoulder strap; |
| quicker than a Kodak snap
|
| Twist a nigga wig back, like a fuckin' soda cap
|
| Nigga, ain’t supposed to rap; |
| I make movies
|
| Them boys poke they chest out, like they fake boobies
|
| Put some D’s on it, put some cheese on it
|
| The blunt is split open, nigga, put some trees on it
|
| But listen, this bishop-realistic-rap-mystic
|
| Got more rhymes and beats, than I could ever solicit
|
| So I give you a freebie
|
| You better smile when you see me
|
| Poppin' on your silver screen or upon your T. V
|
| B-O-B-B-Y? |
| Because we like you
|
| D-I-G-I-T-A-L; |
| still hard as hell and rock bells
|
| Motherfucker flip the head, I take the tails
|
| They must’ve missed it, son; |
| the Digit
|
| They didn’t know we had jelly on the biscuit
|
| So they foolish, why would this motherfucker risk it?
|
| Just to become another police statistic
|
| Bob is ill, ill, ill; |
| Bob is ill
|
| Bronze is ill, ill, ill; |
| Bronze is ill
|
| My insane cocaine cowboy
|
| That mean I ride the beat like a white horse
|
| Propane out-pour
|
| I’m out for a bigger catch; |
| fishscale drought war
|
| My drought raw like Russ Jones; |
| salute to the outlaw
|
| I’ma sprout raw like a tumor and branch out
|
| Devout fans bottleneck the venue; |
| I air it out
|
| I’m the heir that y’all niggas don’t hear about
|
| They scared to say my name five times in the mirror now
|
| Everything clearer now; |
| I’m pro-active, \\cause I clear 'em out
|
| Abort mission, tear 'em out the frame, you a old picture
|
| You a field negro, you a old pitcher, on the grind, past your prime
|
| I’m a spring chicken; |
| spring training on you lame victims
|
| My blade drippin'; |
| Mary Jane henchman; |
| higher plane intention
|
| Human Can’t reach em; |
| I’m so ill, bring in the nurses to see him
|
| My bitch purse is bulimic; |
| the reason: up my per diem
|
| Seein' the beats leave, stiffen the fingers; |
| D’s on the victim
|
| My ninja hit me with these vintage words of wisdom:
|
| «You hang with four broke niggas; |
| be the fifth one»
|
| Yeah; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| I’m so ill just came from the morgue and shit
|
| Bob is ill, ill, ill; |
| Bob is ill
|
| Bronze is ill, ill, ill; |
| Bronze is ill
|
| Killa Hill
|
| Bob is ill, ill, ill; |
| Bob is ill
|
| Bronze is ill, ill, ill; |
| Bronze is ill
|
| Bronze is ill, ill, ill; |
| Bronze is ill
|
| Killa Hill
|
| Yeah, nigga, I’m ill; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor
|
| Nigga, I’m ill; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| Yes, I’m gone; |
| trade my lawn for a shore
|
| Nigga, I’m ill; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor
|
| Nigga, I’m ill; |
| fresh from the morgue
|
| Yes, I’m gone; |
| trade my lawn for a shore
|
| Nigga, I’m ill
|
| This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill
|
| This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill
|
| This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill
|
| Bob is ill, son; |
| boy, Bronze is ill. |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Fresh from the Morgue, artist - Bronze Nazareth. Album song Fresh from the Morgue, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп