Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Do It , by - Dead PlayersRelease date: 25.10.2015
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Do It |
| Ain’t no shoulda, woulda, coulda when it comes to getting out of my mind |
| I just do it, do it, do it |
| Ain’t no shoulda, woulda, coulda when it comes to getting out of my mind |
| I just do it, do it, do it |
| (Verse One — Dabbla) |
| Bring that bounce by the fluid ounce |
| In the house drinking some shit, that I can’t pronounce |
| Big amounts in the system I’m feeling marvellous |
| You ain’t gonna fuck with my bubble, by starting arguments |
| What a cunt, that’s the analysis |
| Dabbla stay happy as Larry, whoever Larry is?! |
| Spinning a million different narratives |
| Whilst I’m showing you who the daddy is |
| Unanimous verdict, magnanimous |
| Polygraphic platters with traffic, I’m in your canisters |
| The highest ranking ambassadors, couldn’t understand |
| So they ran with a pack of jaguars |
| Such a hazardous world but it feels rare |
| Must remain courageous and all of them tings there |
| For now, back to the buzz whilst its still there |
| Just promise you’ll be sticking my dick in a wheelchair |
| (Verse 2 — Lee Scott) |
| The clocks melting, stop yelping it’s not helping |
| I figured life out with my head in the troth belching |
| I blame Franky’s tears on the lack of beers |
| And it’s too late to audition for the cast of Cheers |
| I go west when I blaze a J |
| I’m trying to spend the night on a wasted day |
| I’m flying through tables like Mick Foley, even the sub titles misquote me |
| And no we can’t drink slowly, a peasant with a king skin rollie |
| VIP A-Lister, holding up the bar like a weight lifter |
| I apologise like Anita Baker |
| I’m confused which handshake to use when I meet the maker |
| Just give it to me straight I don’t need the chaser |
| Say it now and I’m thinking of the meanings later |
| Ain’t no shoulda, woulda, coulda when it comes to getting out of my mind |
| I just do it, do it, do it |
| Ain’t no shoulda, woulda, coulda when it comes to getting out of my mind |
| I just do it, do it, do it |
| (Verse 3 — Jam Baxter) |
| I place an hourly wager on the suicide rates keeper |
| Long running list of things that you and I hate |
| Must you arrive late, send warmth for the living things |
| Plug when the waste falls and wild cards singing hymns |
| But with a certain inner stillness |
| I ain’t eating none of the less and welcomed all resulting illness |
| Inhale the fume without filters, every terraced yard like a tin of cold |
| pilchards |
| Each especially apathetic, shrivelled up and enveloped in anaesthetic |
| Gurgling my bath, allegedly I’m crooks |
| Grim maintained by cleverly hung hooks, it’s easy |
| I enter to all applause, two straws in a lake of obscure cures |
| Surfs up, pirouetting off the edge |
| Slurp a hole with a blood boiling in my chest |
| Ain’t no shoulda, woulda, coulda when it comes to getting out of my mind |
| I just do it, do it, do it |
| Ain’t no shoulda, woulda, coulda when it comes to getting out of my mind |
| I just do it, do it, do it |
| I don’t want this night to end or this life to pass me by |
| But we keep on drinking, keep on smoking, getting so high |
| I don’t remember many ways, I wake up tomorrow with no yesterday |
| But when we need to celebrate and I have yet to figure out a better way |
| I don’t want this night to end but my friend |
| If you ain’t got money to spend, go get a lend |