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