Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song More Than Gold (Instr.), artist - Bronze Nazareth. Album song The Pain (12"), in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 20.12.2010
Record label: Babygrande
Song language: English
More Than Gold (Instr.) |
| We gotta make that money long |
| When I make my fifty cent, lord |
| I been rollin', rollin', rollin', rollin' |
| Economy, razor blade rep, I’m try’nna make it Labotamy, stays on your left, pistol destroys it Blaow, blaow, blaow, I need my fifty cent now |
| Blaow, blaow, blaow, I want my fifty cent now |
| I’m coming from the land of the scams and dollar plans |
| Cardierre blasts, to take all your metal, infactured sands |
| Where the blunt runs, straight out the president’s face |
| We got more, heat on the streets, than in your apartment’s space |
| Walk a creek of dirty needles, and follow the set of dreams |
| Broken bottles lead to piss and in auburn colored streams |
| Type old money, pass his hands like identically hugh planes |
| Rap like bodies in Holland Park, the gun never jams |
| Fam, give me my money, you still owe me some change |
| I’ve been waiting since tanks from '67 came with the flame |
| So let’s dance like those AK rounds, and stop this aid |
| Just shake our ass like a glass ashtray, smash on precious face |
| We dangle like sun, seven wrist to escape the shackle |
| Run your money like blood from Matt Parker’s ankles |
| Cuz we gotta get that green cloth to smorgesboard |
| Don’t eat it all, just let me eat for all my hood, you heard |
| Yo, the sun never rises here, it’s just the gun shots |
| Blow your display on white snow and those haunted locks |
| Plus the chilling degrees of our routine |
| Take all the CREAM, what war need vaccine |
| That make it seem as if, we just as cold |
| As our hands, in sweet December mist |
| And RZA piff lift, left over brains of cotton |
| That never blossom, sharp the heavens like the apostle |
| You see me, I write the lines like a sniper’s mind |
| Polish ya nice, push our flowers, college of crime |
| So give me cash, you still owe me some paper |
| I’ve been waiting since you traded beads and whiskey for my labor |
| Coins jingle in pockets like rocks in a glass pipe |
| It’s heavy like the air on San Arbor murder night |
| Stomp ya feet like that body dragged down the basement steps |
| I flow like water in ya cellar from foundation cracks |
| On the same streets where the slaves ran into freedom |
| Night fractured by neon, hustle, my cannons steaming |
| Yo this is I-75 robbery, zombie lodge |
| Kamikaze Gods, Michigan Babylon |
| Nice deadmen that cast metal for no reason to travel on Make that money, but don’t let that money make you |
| Make that money, but don’t let that money make you |
| Make that money, but don’t let that money make you |
| Make that money, but don’t let it cash you in |