Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Up In Smoke, artist - Cuban Link. Date of issue: 19.01.2022
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Up In Smoke |
| Yo,.lyrical murda on wax, what?! |
| Still gettin high, puffin' that la, |
| Yeah, Terror Squad, Blunt Records, |
| Check this shit out, |
| Cuban Link. wha. |
| Yo, i’m up in smoke, |
| Puffin' cho-co-la-te, ta-te queto |
| I rock my flow, and knock it out just like Jose Canseco |
| So take off like Delta, run for shelta |
| Theres no helper here, you felt of it |
| L be servin niggas like Mr. Belvadere |
| I twist an L, sip a beer here and there |
| Drink some liquor then pick a stripper that I can rip and tear, yeah |
| Come hear the sounds of a rookie fromt he boogie down |
| Used to be a shorty but guess whos givin nukkies now |
| So clown if you got the heart |
| Start some bullshit, it’s your bid |
| A bullet through your skull from my full clip |
| I pull triggas givin niggas hell, like I’m sittin, |
| Fake a move, punk, and i’ll run you over like Walter Payton |
| Makin hits, my cliques, makin moola |
| Like Don Shula, nothin’s coola |
| Than puffin on a phat blunt from Cu-ba |
| I smoke more blunts than a little bit, |
| What are you an idiot? |
| The more I smoke, |
| The smaller my phillie get |
| I smoke more blunts than a little bit, |
| What are you an idiot? |
| Wake up in the mornin, got me yearnin for herb! |
| Start the buddah session, |
| True confessions, spark the cu' up, |
| Cu' be where the supa-fly's, buddahfied, |
| Even in a suit n tie, |
| Cruisin though the 5 boroughs wit live thorough, |
| Niggas that like to smoke they Hydro in front of 5−0, |
| Yo Manolo shoot that piece of chit, Chichi get the yayo, |
| While I pay Frank a visit, but the bisquit to his cuello, |
| Ey yo, this fuckin blunt’s got me buggin, |
| I be thuggin it out, like Noreaga playin, |
| You aint sayin nothing, bustin rappers like adreneline, |
| Puttin venom in’em, |
| Put’em on stage, for minimum wage, to graves is where i send’em |
| Hem’em up like a party dress |
| Terror Squad is as hard as it gets |
| Rippin your heart out your chest |
| Spark the cess, chickenheads stressin the sex |
| Wanna jump up in the Lex, twin, when they see me wit the best |
| Twisted up the dutch, a little Tony’s Touch |
| Let’em work the clutch while i lite the bliz up |
| On a highway wit this big fucka |
| Gettin high like Chris Tucker on Friday, hit it my way |
| Like Frank Sinatra, lite up at the opera |
| When the cops come show the prescription from the docta |
| I puff cause I got ta' |
| This stuff from the rasta’s |
| Get enough love in the Bronx, from Italians wit all the pasta |
| John Blazin, keep the tree’s blazin |
| You think a lil weed gonna fuck with my cordination? |
| Wha wha. |
| Haha. yeah. |
| Blunted for life. Blunt Records, |
| Triple Seis, |
| Punisher, |
| Fat Ji-Doe, |
| Don Cartigina, |
| Fulla-clips, wha what, |
| Cuban Link’in it, |
| Artie’s,. yeah, |
| Wha wha. real niggas. |
| Blunted. |
| Yea nigga. this how we do. |