Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song The Corpse Came to Dinner, artist - Brotha Lynch Hung. Album song The Best Of Brotha Lynch Hung, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 25.10.2001
Record label: Black Market
Song language: English
The Corpse Came to Dinner |
It’s a must that I bust any strap ya hand ta me |
It’s inherited, it runs in the family |
Niggas in the town got pounds of beef |
Threaten a niggas life, make it sound so sweet |
I peel 'em back like corn-on-the-cob, cap peel 'em |
Make 'em sound like a whore on the job |
Witta Mac in the backpack, fulla that crack sack |
Gettin' it off (Better have my muthafuckin money) |
Bitch where my siccmade 'til I die shit, nobody saw |
So I was able ta wipe the blood off the hallway walls |
Ain’t got nothin ta live for |
Can’t even trust a bitch, might have ta leave her alone |
Ma had ta dig a ditch, shit so rigorous |
Dealin' wit hataz, snitchaz, and bitchaz, get they brains gone |
Find a new home, you one life is gone |
Cuz I’m O-One, check the clock |
And if these walls could talk, muthafuckaz’ll be shot |
I’m about ta go 51−50, got nobody wit me |
Stressed out like Whitney, Bobby Brown, weed and whiskey |
Smokin' Newports, no support |
But like Too Short I keep it goin' |
Shootin' up forts, who in this sport wanna fuck wit me |
Come on the court, rippin' out insides |
Puttin' stains on thangs, that’s when I rip-ride |
And I slip-slide through the Gardens witta bloody t-shirt, it won’t hurt |
Look at this way, 6 feet deep in the dirt won’t hurt |
Flirtin' wit murda, I leave 'em unheard of |
And I’m sicca than period pads drippin' |
All over your hands gettin' |
The back seat or the trunk, it’s your choice |
Dead or alive, smothered and fried |
The way you better uncover your eyes, I’m in the skies |
Witta 9 tryin' ta take out your spine |
Nobody know crime, throw up that sicc sign |
And strike hard like stricc-nine |
No recovery, you other G niggas betta duck |
Leave you in the tuxed up |
Psycho, off the wall like Michael |
Always paranoid cuz I be blowin' out that nitro |
All day, every day, murda spray, got you in Glad Bags |
Headed for the pad, and you can ask my dad |
I was a scavenger, 14 years old eatin' scabs |
Graduated ta nigga meat, but I don’t wanna brag |
Fuck Jeffry Dohmer, he a muthafuckin fag |
I got nigga nuts and guts in the bag, draggin' 'em ta the pad |
(Corpse came ta dinner) |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
(Corpse came ta dinner) |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
(Corpse came ta dinner) |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
(Corpse came ta dinner) |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Fuck under the influence, I’m hella fucked up |
Swervin' down the freeway, spillin' my cup |
Tryin' take you out this rap on the Underbelly |
He ain’t shit, he 'bout ta be in the trunk smelly |
By me and my Relly, you never know |
Whatever tho, I got auto magazines and that weak intro |
What you got against me? |
Don’t you know I rip niggas up, turn 'em ta minced meat |
Well if you got some sense, beat it, like raw eggs |
I used ta have hella homies, now they all hate |
But I’mma leave it alone, I’m on my own like a voodoo nigga |
If a nigga want ta get ate, what would you do nigga |
I was too cool wit 'em, group of niggas and they tripped on me |
Gave 'em a little bit of fame, then they dipped on me |
But you know, it’s all in the game, tell the crip homie |
Ta hit 'em witta slug in the brain, that’s what you get from me |
Crash dummy, your careers defected |
And you ain’t sold a record last time I checked it |
You just keep knockin', I feel disrespected |
Now your neck got disconnected by the Lynch Hung necklace |
Hey, I leave 'em red, and I don’t eat the head |
Let the Tec spit and chop niggas down ta the ground like Judge Dread |
Come up in the door lookin' just like a fed |
And you call yourself a rap vet |
Get out the bed, and let me fuck her like she should be fucked |
All in the butt, wit the 9 milly, swallowin' nut |
And you see me in black clothes, creepin' from the back |
Don’t know how ta act, black blankets fulla Mac’s |
I use 'em for nutsacks and full body sacks |
Better not let your daughter out, end up in the slaughter house |
Chokin' and spittin', chest open and bleedin' |
And me fuckin' her from the back, and I hope for you ta see it |
(Corpse came ta dinner) |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
(Corpse came ta dinner) |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
(Hey Folks, open the door nigga) |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
(Nah, nah, open the trunk) |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |
Ziplock, body-bag, toe-tag, wet t-shirt, black mask |