| Dear rap game, you’re so wack, we feel like suing you
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| Niggas dressed up, nowhere to go like atheists at they funerals
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| My revolution’s beyond musical, my violence on auto-pilot
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| I can’t be morally neutral or silent to the truth you coward
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| I fire out of control
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| Much different than the human resources department at your job letting you go
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| The V for Vendetta vet, showing your fickle fans that
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| You’re garbage in every category and in categories that ain’t even invented yet
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| I’m feeling wild lately
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| I don’t know how to die, kill you, you can educate me
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| I’m back when the game is horrible
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| I stepped right out of Stan Lee’s imagination, Chino is a living Marvel
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| I smoke stems with niggas that’s sinning, won’t bend
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| Leave you between a rock and a hard place like Stonehenge
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| I can count on one hand rappers I’m greater than, but wait a minute
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| Only if there’s a calculator in it, the number’s so infinite
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| I spit it, authentic, arsenic, acidic
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| So committed I should be committed, I’m tired of being counterfeited
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| The Lyric Jesus never smile
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| Keep it super ugly like a Forest Whitaker and Whoopi Goldberg love child
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| Outrageous, cops racist, frown and smile tazers
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| My eyes burning from the salt with the tears of a thousand angels
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| I wanna topple the nation crazed in the Fist of Fury
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| I spit it ice cold, no refrigeration necessary
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| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
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| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
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| Drop an ill verse, verbal assault
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| Lyrical, genius
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| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
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| Every rhyme I write, closer to God
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| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
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| Yeah, yeah, it’s time to melt down your debit card
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| Welcome to my demented mind, blood is the cover charge (yeah)
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| Fuck around I will destroy thee
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| Retarded like a lot of movie theatre employees
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| Murder everything, end of discussion
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| Gained attention like an Amber Rose wardrobe malfunction (yeah)
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| Video ass-whippings, your homie’s like «You seen this?»
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| His snotbox busted, I don’t mean containers of Kleenex (get ‘em)
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| You wish you weren’t involved with the horror
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| I pull the revolver tomorrow, your people holding candlelight vigils for ya
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| Gorilla suplex a nigga off of a tall building
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| Stab him in his face at the bottom, make sure I’ve killed him
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| Hold fire like Prometheus, diction deviant
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| My flow the freakiest like the daughters of Southern white racist preachers is
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| The beast’ll smash in the speakers to pieces
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| When I spit a sequence elitist-ly fiendish you’ve never experienced previous
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| See me breed a phoenix that could bleed a phoenix to the deepest
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| Reaches where your feet is 'til you’re in dire need of orthopedics
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| The cast of The First 48 is askin questions
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| It’ll take three episodes for them to find your severed midsection
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| They never seen such savagery, my angry energy
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| Have nucular reactors look like triple-A batteries
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| No experiment, my pen’s a hero to heroines
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| Sick like Reese Witherspoon with a spoon cooking up some heroin
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| I sin but I’m tryna escape this base bondage
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| I’m garbage, breathing, burning lakes of lava and carnage
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| Hip-Hop's in crisis but my veins contain Christ nitrous
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| So precise it says Lyric Jesus on my driver’s license
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| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
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| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
|
| Drop an ill verse, verbal assault
|
| Lyrical, genius
|
| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
|
| Every rhyme I write, closer to God
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| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
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| I often, beat a crippled man with his own cane
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| Far from, close to being emotionally sane
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| Caution, sick criminals lurk in the terrain, Gotham
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| I have the most abnormal tolerance to pain, monster
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| Chino XL but they call me Santo Sangre
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| Here’s some trivia, my derivative lineage is straight from the Virgin Mary
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| Scary when the muzzle flash
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| Flash tear through your abs like fake Chinatown Gucci bags
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| I got a terrible cerebral verbal virus
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| Neuroleptic narcotics, my hand’s so shaky I can barely write this
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| Light this, angel dust got me loopy
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| All after Thought like a Roots groupie
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| You bet your life that what I write is mega-trife
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| And better than getting head from your hated archenemy’s pregnant wife
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| I constantly conquer the conquerors with cocky confidence
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| Chino the ominous will mollywop the populous
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| Where them guns you supposedly holding and toting?
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| I’m placing coins over both of your eyes for the Devil’s totem
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| Bullets discharge and get lodged to your chest like a corsage
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| While I’m hitting your squad with a force of Thor, that’s the Norse god
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| Flesh wounds color like a collage, witness your corpse fried
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| You hear more cries than when the lead singer of The Doors died
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| RICANstruction stomping like Sasquatch
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| ‘Til my heart stops pumping like Dick Clark’s
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| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
|
| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
|
| Drop an ill verse, verbal assault
|
| Lyrical, genius
|
| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God
|
| Every rhyme I write, closer to God
|
| Every rhyme I write, gettin' closer to God |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Closer to God , by - Chino XL. Song from the album RICANstruction: The Black Rosary, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп