Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Blao!, artist - Celph Titled. Album song The Gatalog, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 15.10.2002
Record label: Demigodz Enterprises
Song language: English
Blao! |
| You’re lookin' at the rookie rapper |
| With a years biggest itcha rows |
| Yeah this nigga switch his flows |
| Yeah I dig and switch his hoes |
| Hear them niggas snitch to po’s |
| Where a nigga pitch his blow |
| And how my hustle gross is near that nigga Richard Po’s |
| I share my figures with the hoes |
| I’m where the digger stitch his clothes |
| It’s ghetto F.A.B.O.L.O.U.S |
| I got street legend, fame |
| I’m the kid known to put the Colt to a bredren’s frame |
| Like he’s Edgerrin James |
| Y’all stash guns I carry 'em on my waist |
| Ya part time piece |
| Aquarium interface |
| The hood rat Hugh Heff, loungin' on ya in the Rolls |
| The project Playmates, around the corner centerfolds |
| I’m constant hated |
| Listen to the nonsense stated |
| But niggas can’t shit on me like they constipated |
| I briefly conversated |
| These doors sittin' on ten times two |
| Mami what’s so complicated? |
| Ya heard? |
| Blao! |
| Explosion, game on lock |
| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop |
| It’s like blao! |
| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely |
| So duck deez motherfucker |
| Blao! |
| Said it before, ready for war |
| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump |
| Blao! |
| Slap my gat, I ain’t hear to talk |
| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk |
| It’s like Karl, Pac and Biggie is the greatest to rhyme |
| Problem is, this list only exists in my mind |
| So instead |
| I listen to your style and keep laughin' |
| You beatin' me rappin', that’s like Jim Abbott clappin' |
| That’ll never happen, I’m sicker of course |
| Then droppin' a dime |
| Like Shawn Kemp’s child support |
| Look at all you kids, underground and straight shook |
| You ain’t gettin' signed like nerdy kids yearbooks |
| I’m gettin' second looks but the industry is shitty |
| Cause I’d rather die than ever sound like Chingy |
| Right Thurr |
| Come on dawg |
| You ain’t gettin' robbed |
| Cause it’s uneven, like Dru Hill on a seesaw |
| Yo, you don’t want any bad blood in-between us |
| Like we’re standing right next to Magic Johnson’s intravenous |
| It’s Hot Karl and Celph so if you wanted a hit |
| You can peep the famous guys and fast forward our shit |
| Blao! |
| Explosion, game on lock |
| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop |
| It’s like blao! |
| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely |
| So duck deez motherfucker |
| Blao! |
| Said it before, ready for war |
| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump |
| Blao! |
| Slam my gat, I ain’t hear to talk |
| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk |
| They say cause I don’t believe in Christ that I’m misled |
| Been shot at twice but never hit I just miss lead |
| Get it right, the name’s Celph Titled |
| Straight out of motherfuckin' Tampa |
| Leavin' enough gun smoke to give you lung cancer |
| Plans for your album? |
| It’s best if you lose those |
| Shoot up your M.P.C. |
| and you gonna find a few loop holes |
| We sellin' bullet wounds, havin' a wholesale |
| Leavin' complex patterns all in your head so you know braille |
| And so frail rappers, y’all ain’t Dance With Wolves |
| Just swimmin' with sharks, when the hammer get’s pulled |
| Any witnesses? |
| Who’s tellin'? |
| Nobody |
| The perfect crime, no autopsy, and no body |
| Without a neck you can’t rock that chain |
| No way for air to get to your brain |
| Another murder for this Cuban to claim |
| An inconsiderate asshole pissin' on you |
| What else you expect? |
| That’s what a dickhead do |
| Blao! |
| Explosion, game on lock |
| Hotness, drop this, it’s that sick hip hop |
| It’s like blao! |
| I’m a coast to coast G, keep the toaster closely |
| So duck deez motherfucker |
| Blao! |
| Said it before, ready for war |
| With my sawed off shotgun, hand on the pump, pump |
| Blao! |
| Slam my gat, I ain’t hear to talk |
| You wanna make it gutter I can throw you off the sidewalk |
| Yo Doc, pee on your floor |
| I’mma be on the whore |
| Till she knocked out, then I take a G out her drawer |
| I’m a thief, on the streets you might be in the morgue |
| Doin' a chicken of course, I take a key out a Porsche-ah |
| Box 'em in claustrophobic |
| I’m a pro y’all, know this |
| When sensing y’all controllers |
| Grown men is talkin' |
| This the fast lane, move over to the margin |
| It’s over when I walk in |
| «Doctor» on my license plate |
| The front of my truck resembles Mike Tyson face |
| When I pull up to the club, the buildin' shake |
| Hoes start runnin' out |
| Niggas start runnin' mouth |
| I’mma bolt the door and security the area |
| Got! |
| We molt floors to secure the Dillinger |
| Yo Doc! |
| You want war, I’ll be sure to bury ya |
| The more the merrier, but your |
| Blao! |