| Stand back ya heard sir, a murder’s occured
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| My verbs are disturbed
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| My curse words are hurtin you herbs
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| Alertin the service bringin marines with kerosene flasks
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| guns and masks jumpin through glass with SIG 229's and mp5's
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| I rapid fire bustin sprayment
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| When I was a baby my pacifier was a grenade pin
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| And yes I’m from tampa
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| No I’m not a buccaneer but I’ll be buckin near your
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| main arteries ya fuckin queer
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| The sun is here
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| Cover your eyes
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| All my attributes is dangerous
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| My moustache is murderous
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| My hipbone’ll send your clique home with they ribs
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| blown back and they wigs sewn to they six pack
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| Cartilage in a gift wrap
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| My cartridges click clack
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| And leave you and your bitch clapped
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| Now ya bitch ass need a neck brace with a chin strap
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| We swing machetes at crews with little ice picks and
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| niggas round my way call me the cuban missile crisis
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| My raps not for emo kids
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| My flame thrower leave you bald head like chemo kids
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| I ain’t a gangsta and a gentleman
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| I’m one of the two
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| Don’t open doors for bitches
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| So which one do you choose?
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| Playboy make you steak sauce
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| A-1 you gay soft
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| Not travolta but *whats in my holster* take your face off
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| We got the cake off
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| My money stacks make the rubber bands snap
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| My number runners gettin bundled with no goverment tags
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| Ain’t no 20/80 split better give me half
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| Or you can get your jaw split
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| Either or with C4 galore heaters pour
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| Got the fever for some thick skeezers and a need for whores
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| She got a apple bum so what the fuck we need bonita for
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| Rappers try to pull my cards I gave em a shuffle
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| Guttamouf took their bodies so I gave him a shovel
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| Runnin ten laps in a second
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| When I’m rappin on records
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| Came in the game in '98 and I’m already a legend
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| Back in the day me and dutchmassive schemin just to get in
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| Now we slingin wax from 813 to the Kremlin
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| Hook line and sinker
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| My hooks and lines’ll sink you leagues under the sea
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| Up my sleeves up under the fleece
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| No tricks just a loaded piece
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| Chrome heat
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| Put you in a coma sleep
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| With a combover to cope with holes in ya cheek
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| And I don’t care if you worship
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| I’ll put a bullet in your temple
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| Leave you bent and crippled
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| Wife and kids get sentimental
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| Ya best soldiers incomparable to my b-team
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| Fuck nas mission impossible be my thief’s theme
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| Each beam I aim multiplied by 8
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| You gettin fucked on ya album and gettin raped on mixed tapes
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| I kick with a flipped face targetin system
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| Heat vision like the predator
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| I’m slaugterin victims
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| The harder I hit em
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| Nigga the better they know
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| Call up the reverend and we bringin holy shit to ya show
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| These holy clips leave you holy split
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| Every ho I hit get baptized in holy water comin out the hole in my dick
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| I stay holdin my dick
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| You thought I wasn’t one of them
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| Spittin phlegm on bibles in gods crib right in front of him
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| I’m iceberg but not slim
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| More like this hyper shit that sunk the titanic
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| That irreversible damage
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| There’s no recovery possible
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| No nurses no hospitals no stuffed bears and get well cards
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| Just celph spittin hells bars
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| You grew up on a farm with the amish gettin they goats from
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| I’m from the dirty south but I’m clean so call me soap scum
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| I’ll sell the same shit twice
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| Double dip it and reup
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| I ain’t married to this rap game
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| We ain’t signin a prenup
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| You up late watchin raunchy cable
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| And I’m a creep behind your couch and crack ya motherfuckin
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| skull on the coffee table |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Primo's Four Course Meal, artist - Celph Titled. Album song The Gatalog: A Collection of Chaos, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп