Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song American Dream , by - Children Of The CornRelease date: 29.11.1999
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
American Dream |
| Crooked corrupted criminal crime boss with cream |
| Cocaine hustler, blowing out the brains of busters |
| Be in my mansion chillin', inhalin' the ganja smoke |
| Counting mad cream, weighin' tons of coke |
| Guarded by thugs and Rottweilers |
| I flood the streets with drugs and clock dollars |
| Niggas get plugged when my Glock hollers |
| Skunk smokers, Philly and Owl ripper |
| Cristal sipper, I’ve been a willy for a while nigga |
| 'Gruff got hoes, the man with all the nachos |
| Expensive hot clothes, drop top Rolls |
| East coast, West coast, fiends overdose |
| 'Gruff get the cream with my team and I’m ghost |
| This money be temptin' me, to jump out the MPV |
| Empty three clips of hollow tips with no sympathy |
| Since 14, I sold morphine for more green |
| Kept dope in a Nautica coat under the drawstring |
| And watched out for cops, squad cars, and Beemers |
| And laundry ninas, flee the country to Argentina |
| Laid back in the beach (yeah) coastin' with commuters |
| Smokin' the buddahs on the cruiseline boat to Aruba |
| For a while, yo; |
| pump the vowel so I can pile dough |
| Then become a Harlem kingpin just like Alpo' |
| Get paid so I can lay low in San Diego |
| With yayo so I can ship it out whenever I say so |
| Yo! |
| Makin' this money is the American Dream |
| East Coast to West Coast, you know what I mean |
| Whether it’s Uptown, Downtown; |
| you pick the scene |
| You gots to get your own scheme |
| We ain’t splittin' this cream |
| Yo! |
| I’mma run hysterically, till they bury me |
| Count numerically, hills of Beverly |
| More grands than cherokee; |
| president like Eric B., and Rakim |
| Drug game, I’m top ten; |
| locked in? |
| Right now its not an option |
| And those who creep got the Mac in the heat |
| They got the five-inch screens in the back of the seat |
| And now they got this daddy raggin' |
| Last year, had me saggin', wasn’t ready |
| When Heavy was back, tossed me in the paddywagon |
| But ain’t nobody out here stoppin' love |
| Cause we was twelve years old in the Cotton Club, poppin' bub' |
| So all the fame without the fortune; |
| goddamn, you wrong |
| Killa kid Cam-e-ron surviving in the Amazon |
| Yo! |
| I leave you dazed and froze |
| With all kinds of amazing flows |
| Money surrounded I counted |
| While bathing with Asian hoes |
| Back home niggas is after me |
| I’m back to sea, sippin' daquiris |
| Coke factory, fiends baggin' up crack for me |
| From cutting up rocks to investing in stocks |
| Nautica yachts, and knots busting outta my socks |
| Now that Bloods play the chub |
| All the ladies love me, they hate who made me hubby |
| Behind my back they say my baby’s ugly |
| Each night I sleep, with freaks with Lamborghini jeeps |
| Neighbors be sneaking peeks, how my semen leaks, between the sheets |
| Mess up my loot, I cut your collars, Juan |
| Cause these is modern times, and the only thing I see is dollar signs |
| Check it! |
| To be seen clean in the mean Beam |
| Is every team’s dream; |
| Big L’s a cream fiend |
| With more green than Springsteen |
| You know I’m crazy quick to smack a groupie |
| I’m known to mack a hoochie |
| Do I got stacks of lucci (Absolutely!) |
| Harlem kids is known for felonies |
| And sellin' keys, pushin 300Z's |
| GS3's, and puffin' trees |
| These G’s breeze while DTs |
| Be yellin, 'freeze!', we stash cheese |
| And keep a pocket full of centuries |
| Ayo, I’m set for the rest of my life |
| Some clown that laid the threat cause I had sex with his wife |
| I stuck my tool to his brain, said «act a fool and get slain» |
| Nigga, yo' bitch chose me, you know the rules to the game |
| Yea What? |
| Harlem on the Rise |
| BloodShed, Killa Kam |
| Six Figures, Cee-O-Cee, Chuck Blassie |
| My Man man Mase, the Bad Boy |
| Uptown, McGruff |
| Big L, 139, NFL, 140 |