| Motherfuckers better shut they mouth when the Godz spit rapid fire wisdom
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| Guns and grenades, my brigade consists of killer henchmen
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| There ain’t a nigga that’s liver, I’m a Gun & Ammo subscriber
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| That’s quick to burn numerous holes through your Avirex fibers
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| I’m on some mob shit, Cuban mafia conglomerate
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| Tommy Gun nozzle spittin' hollows tips, lauchin' like rocket ships
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| I got Glocks and clips that are damn near ready to chase you
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| A bullet with your name on it, eager to kill and erase you
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| My Demigodz swordsmen are trained to slice precisely
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| You should question wifey, why your children look just like me
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| Come out the closet 'cause I know your whole crew’s fag
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| I saw 'em on the corner, rockin' rainbow-colored do-rags
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| I rhyme fast and you just a bunch of slow herbs
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| You gettin' cuts and bruises trippin' over your own words
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| You better worship the barrel nigga, my Glock is holy
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| Re-fry your ass and serve you on a plate with guacamole
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| The MAC Don, my teeth cut through Teflon
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| I was raised draggin' bodies through the door sayin', «What's up mom?»
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| Niggas think I’m a vampire, I ain’t seen the sun since it was set on fire
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| I’m the fuckin' second comin' of Messiah
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| My promo manager didn’t know what he was in for
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| I’ll come to your town, rob the cash register at my in-store
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| I know Muslims that rather piss on the Koran in front of Farrakhan
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| Then try to fuck with me when I get my battle on
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| This is mic mastery, I massacre men automatically
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| Rapidly bringin' tragedy that shatter Grey’s Anatomy
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| Rhymin' like it’s '89, I’m slashin' through your cavalry
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| With Lou and Apathy, I got the Demigodz in back of me
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| So cross me, you’ll get stabbed like Jesus’s wrists
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| Cease and desist, even sober cats be pleadin' the 5th
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| Y’all bitches know who it is, I’m back from the dead
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| Your facts be off base like recoverin' crack heads
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| The heat speaker with Celph Titled the beat freaker
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| My fleets eager to fire Silver Bullets like Bob Sieger
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| To all God seekers, it’s the end of the road
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| My sentence is gold, the venom in my pen’ll explode
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| Penance is old, I’ll rhyme 'til I’m sick and disgusted
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| You’ll go out with a bang like a chick in a snuff flick
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| I flow with the slang, Esoteric commands shit
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| Responsible for more head bus’in' then public transit
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| You ever had a nightmare? |
| Yea you were at an open mic where
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| Your friends and family were watchin' through the bright lights glare
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| And I dared you to flow but you woke up screamin' in pain
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| And quite scared, only to find me standin' right there
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| A demon over your head, leanin' over your bed
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| To lead you closer to death while you dreamin' you overslept
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| I leisurely stole your breath like that kitten in Cat’s Eye
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| I’m that sly, the Klan will start wishin' they’re black guys
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| Tell your girl she should be slimmer her fat thighs
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| I slipped a disc in my back when was hittin' it last night
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| And last I checked, the main theme of livin' the rap life
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| Is to snatch mics like I don’t have mine yet
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| I want 1 for my hand, 2 Live on the stage
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| 3 in the lab, 4 is a surplus, and 5 on the page
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| I want my face on the TV in every home in the country
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| 'Til Mom’s so sick of seeing me she don’t even want me
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| You wanna battle for money, well I can spit it acapella
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| And probably make you drop a mil-li-on like Rocafella
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| 'Cause tryin' to take the mic away from Ap when I’m spittin'
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| Is like Mya tryin' to wrestle Missy for a piece of chicken
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| My verses reverse Earth spinnin' on it’s axis
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| 'Til wack rap acts wax starts spinin' backwards
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| I-am-the-illest-rap-cat-out
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| Now play the record forward and try to figure it out
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| Yo, I snatch profits and chips until my pocket rips
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| While y’all race through space in fake rocket ships
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| If I stay on my computer then I’ll start up the apocalypse
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| Simulating' nuclear war like Matthew Broderick’s
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| Ap used to be known for complex rap
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| Now I diss chicken heads like I’m Project Pat
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| Ladies I hypnotize 'til they let me lick their thighs
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| You can see those little heart shapes in your bitches eyes
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| I’m Don Juan, Es Caliente, Rico Suave
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| The Lone Ranger, y’all are like Tonto… Kimosabe
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| Tryin' to diss the champs but you missed your chance
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| You got so shook on stage that you pissed your pants
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| My hand grips 'til my fists get pistol cramps
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| You couldn’t relax if your raps were mystic chants like
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| (Ooommm) Tryin' to meditate or levitate
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| But make sure you standin' 50 feet back to detonate |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Heat Speakers, artist - Demigodz. Album song Deluxe Edition: The Godz Must Be Crazier, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп