Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Automatic, artist - Chemo. Album song The Stomach of the Mountain, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 25.09.2011
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Chemo
Song language: English
Automatic |
See it’s funny how this life spin |
Only ever seem to get it when I write sin |
With a regret I feel the light dim gradually |
Step into the darkness and do it with a rye grin |
The name’s Bradley |
I’m up early, standing weary in the cold steams |
It’s 7:30 — check it out I’m knocking on |
I’m getting dough is the theory in full effect |
And functional, on time, punctual, the velvet parker’s strung |
Cos paying dues is a life time mission |
A pipeline vision in a strife-torn prison |
My thoughts choked and dreams broke and no wishes |
Ever coming truer, I refuse to be restricted |
The way’s think — especially when you play this |
And realise you’re a slave to chasing the pay slips |
Wanna be wasted in places I can’t pronounce |
Wanna be faceless to strangers, a charming lout |
From Terror Australis, I’m known to rock hardest |
On a microphone I’m a hot artist |
So get the party people plastered, year’s are now mastered |
Spears in the stars and sun, the town bastard |
You see it’s funny how this life spin |
Only ever seem to get it when I write sin |
With a regret I feel the light dim gradually |
Step into the darkness and do it with a rye grin |
The name’s Bradley |
Spark it with a small flame |
To the people playing in it yo it’s all game |
To the people on the planet yeah it’s all pain |
Name’s Bradley and strut be my forte, do it always |
Aiyyo Kinger from Jack, smoke black from green weed |
Who came in the game, filled up quick, Kareem Reid |
Sean Price a mother fuckin' bastard beast |
With a bullet that touch kids like Catholic priests |
Clap you peeps, smash your fleet, trap your neice |
In the corner, do what I wanna — her ass is sweet |
Thug African, drug trafficing can make you a dough |
Coke habit in the Sahara, I’m making it snow |
Got a habbit from grabbin rashins and making no blow |
Float Joe rapidly running, too steep and could fall (?) |
That’s when I’m packing em' down, smackin em' down |
Clappin' around with a '44 Magnum to pound, blast it around |
Snatchin' the crown, Sean Price is the King |
Get on your knees bitch! |
And kiss the ring — motherfucker |
I spent 10 years, prime of my life smoking on cigarettes |
Blend beers with Bundaberg Rum and still I didn’t get |
Having my moments, I’m a bad drunk |
Brad Strut, on me’s the onus time to stand up (brand new!) |
Finding the purpose, I’m a fan still (Brad Zill) |
You had your chance but didn’t grab on |
Had you taken a minute just to scope out |
No doubt you would have witnessed I’m a low-down profile |
So here we go now sitting with a pen in hand |
No expectations, waiting patient for my 10 grand |
Me and my friends man dismantle microphones |
Devise your best plan to even try invoke |
You better write the quote «chiller than a pandemic» |
This man sent me, time to kill it — this is fantastic! |
My brand’s manic, you stand in the paddock |
I seperate the herd with my words automatic |