| Yo, stand back, put the picture my frame
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| The handcraft of a master, the flicker, the flame
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| That sell three madman Megadef LP
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| Monster mash, prop for what? |
| From S.O.B
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| Shout to Honeycomb, what would I be without wax?
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| Just another empty battery shell in the pack
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| String on the puppet, laughin', claimin' I’m all of that
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| When I know in fact, everything you claim is all crap
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| Yo, got the fuse lit, keepin' it movin', so
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| Freakin' abusive, people are pukin', so
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| Sick of the music, suckin' the fumes in
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| So don’t get it confused, I’m not you, stupid
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| Hundred-proof booze in the back, all tipsy
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| Bring two clips, I’m clappin' all sixty
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| Swing through quick and bust if one’s empty
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| Your chances of leavin' the club fifty fifty
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| Wanna fuck around with Hell’s recruits?
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| I’ll stomp Satan in his face 'till it melts my boots
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| I’ll use the sun for my throne, universe as my home
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| And your skull as a crown to adorn my dome
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| Watch porn with your girl, slip a mickey in her Becks
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| Put a hickey on her neck, then the titties I caress
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| Under matchin' Vickie set’s, I’m the one that chickies sweat
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| Make 'em suck it 'till their jaw’s fucked up like 50 Cent’s
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| Most of you faggots stay postin' that jacked shit
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| But when we retaliate, it’s never some rap shit
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| Swing on your mandible and bring out mechanical
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| Devices that splices flesh from the intangible
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| I spark fire like electrical shocks
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| And ready the Glocks, to clash with Connecticut cops
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| You’re on some Brad Pitt shit, so you better go watch
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| The movie Seven, cause you’ll find your wife’s head in a box
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| Rush you bustas, get touched with nunchucks
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| You tough tough, askin' to really get fucked up
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| Who cares what you been through? |
| I’m goin' against you, so
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| Sharpen your skills while I sharpen my Ginsu
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| Gas and ashes, and medical kits, but see
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| That’s what happens when chemicals mix
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| The birth of a strange creature, umbilical split
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| But for now, the main feature, you said it was sick
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| The word on the streets is that I’m hellbound, cause I bully Christians
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| But I stay up in the armory, developin' pulley systems
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| For launchin' grenades strategically, onstage with heaters illegally
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| Got the sound man shook at my vocal frequency
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| Back at the crib, bitch better strap on a bib
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| Cause when I’m bustin' off, it’s drippin' off the tip of her chin
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| Chickens and hens, you know I keep 'em bendin' over for me
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| With my chef hat, stuffin' poultry on the upholstery
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| Celph Titled’s known as a gangsta to some
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| I got the powers of the gods, acclimated to one
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| All these young cats with Glocks, tryin' to clear the floor
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| I’m old school, when I’m pullin' out my Fearless Four
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| Hear the sound of the clap? |
| Bury your face
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| Cause the mag that I pack needs a carryin' case
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| I’m not from the Aryan race, but I’ll still persecute you
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| Ride around in the trunk with a little hole to shoot through
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| I’m «Word Perfect,» back in the circuit
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| Been, top ten since you were snatchin' purses
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| Golf club thug, a nickel and dime hustler
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| All them mob flicks are makin' you rhyme tougher
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| When the nine clicks, you freeze
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| Two sick emcees, get cool quick when I’m shootin' the breeze
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| Who’s this? |
| Ryu and Tak, with Ap and Celph
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| Spittin' heat 'till the plastic melt, watch it
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| Claim you wanna stay, but you have to go
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| Grab the gun powder, blast the Calico
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| Time to saddle up, this ain’t a talent show
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| You wanna battle what? |
| Bullets that travel slow
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| Talk, but keep steppin'
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| Discrete, false perception
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| Talk, but keep steppin'
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| Spark with heat weapons |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Playin' with Fire , by - Celph Titled. Song from the album The Gatalog, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп