Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Worship, artist - Cult of The Damned. Date of issue: 11.11.2021
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Worship |
| Look up in the sky, it’s a bird, it’s a plane |
| No it’s Tony Broke falling from the clouds with the rain |
| Ask no questions, I pick your brain |
| Let me digest what you manifest as sane |
| Its not me, yeah you got me, like Erykah |
| I kidnap the editor and bitch slap the messenger |
| For peddling fake news, I neck booze |
| And wait for these devils to make moves |
| I’m two drunken steps ahead on me last braincell |
| In the background, left for dead |
| On my ABC’s in this World War Z |
| Recite the alphabet backwards walkin' on one leg |
| Then I switch forms like a Azazel |
| Fallin', crawlin' gnawin' through the mic cable |
| Like a rodent with a gold tooth |
| Speeding down the road to hell crashin' thru the tollbooth |
| I stay droopy with Grubb |
| 2 bad bitches looking boujee as fuck |
| Uh, never go bed in my jewellery |
| But I had to check before I lit the dooby |
| It’s not true, its based loosely |
| On a night I spent with your sister Lucy |
| They say I’m good but live unruly |
| Played a part in the movie |
| Like the script suits me |
| All star Hollywood cast |
| Sniff good Hollywood off Hollywood ass |
| Stop spittin' its obvi you’re wack |
| DVL never reference God in a rap |
| Uh, yeah you bitches better pay Sniffy |
| I’m in the cut sipping Haig whiskey |
| Rider cost a couple grand |
| Repping Cult of The Damned with a gun in my hand |
| I’m big coin like the money hungry Hannibal Lecter |
| Protect Salar at all costs, nah I’m the protector |
| Nobody’s perfect but I’m a perfecter |
| From my findings I conclude that perfection is attainable |
| The only constant is change, and that’s unchangeable |
| Went from groupie hoes to proper lady folk |
| In boujee clothes, my crew be those who appear in studios |
| And attend very important business meetings in Carluccio’s |
| Like 'tis the season, catch me in the lincoln schemin' |
| Between bouts of Tibetan rhythmic breathing |
| I go on days out with me inner demon |
| Might take your face out won’t give a reason |
| Or take your dame out and give her feelings |
| That she won’t be receiving, the pimp flow |
| Is cold like the river region, in the winter wheezing |
| In the Canada Goose in England but still as freezing |
| I infiltrate your party |
| Dripped to my veins with Bacardi |
| I ain’t forget you used to wear the Ed Hardy |
| Im here to take it all like Mugabe |
| And play piano in the palace like Liberace |
| All i do is chill, strap L’s |
| Keep the bolt-cutters in case all else fails |
| My mate’s telling me that «you're not well» |
| I ain’t got to say nothin' for my record to sell |
| C-L, wow, Slim Papa |
| Dropped the .5 in the pint of the lager |
| I get the bag and then depart like ta-ta |
| Hide away in Spain, lower frames, say nada |
| Really though i never ever been lost |
| You better talk nice when you talk to a boss |
| You move more when you lower the costs |
| Really C never seeing a loss, yeah |
| Call up CL, leave fassys peeled, that’s on the real |
| My deal be your whole meal and cut the spiel |
| It’s grime, my brain it feel like jellied eel |
| I’m fried, the sky is teal, we smoke a field |
| On their knees, they know it’s Rok |
| They want the drill, they kneel, they see the king |
| I come with TL, the ganja’s sealed, it’s on the DL |
| But I smoke it right in front of your face |
| Cloud of smoke and I pong at the waist |
| Now babylon give me the chase |
| I get away but I ain’t running away |
| Welcome to London today |
| Reporting live it be Slummy |
| The someone who just hijacked your honey |
| (Show want money) but she ain’t gonna get shit from me |
| Neck snappin' like a crash test dummy |
| The Big Lebowski in the Audi |
| Yeah, leave his innards out I still got villains round me |
| Drunken master, sweg like an alchy |
| One eye on the pistol like I’m Mike Wazowski |
| Monsters INC, it’s not what you think |
| Dressed like I’m Pinky bitch I’m pimpin' in the pink |
| Heard your album, couldn’t get jiggy with the shit |
| I got some b on me, feeling like Jigga on the strip |
| Not a verse it’s a simple soliloquy you prick |
| I’m Dillian Whyte with the gloves and they ain’t even peeped the flip |
| Play the field, I’m Willy Beaman in the bits |
| Derek Jeter, beat the beater if they beefin' with the six |
| Shrooms, LSD, lack of sleep I’m hallucinating |
| I thought I seen you winning but I was mistaken |
| I’m putting the food on the table and broccoli what I’m blazin' |
| Sore throat, smoke a L, still shouting out Laigon |
| Cauliflower eat when your head what we been creatin' |
| Hungry, greedy, craving, still I ain’t bringing home the bacon |
| Never been too patient but the plug has finally got me waitin' |
| Valium got me lazy, can’t be assed to send your payment |
| Sweg Lawd, Sweg Lawd! |
| What you telling me? |
| Driving a nine bar to Leeds drunk off Hennessy |
| In the kitchen doing cooking lessons/chemistry |
| And crack the recipe, chef and leave you out dead on street |
| Bitch you’re not my pedigree |
| Take a triple dose of H and wait down in hell for me |
| Bro you ain’t an OG you’re elderly |
| DVLGNG demon with an angel that fell for me |