Lyrics The Gospel According To... - Demigodz

The Gospel According To...

The microphone mutilator with bazookas and grenades
In excess and surplus, how effortless words come
Y’all played out like Charlie Sheen t-shirts and coffee mugs
I’m lookin' for Ben Frank so somebody best cough him up
Or I’mma lunch and murder, cookin' ribs on bunsen burners
Lucky I ain’t Kentucky Fried so motherfuck the Colonel
Barrel to your sternum, cylinder to your medulla
Canister to your keister
For five stacks I’m willin' to shoot ya
Hit me out of fear and the silhouette appears
The drum magazines that resemble Mickey Mouse ears
Get slapped in the face by the book of God
And tag you on Facebook as a faggot tryna look hard
All you see is the Sig, you ain’t seein' the kid
I’ll rob a bank with earrings and a Madea wig
Flee to the crib, put the dope in the pot
My gun like my bathroom sink, keep the Scope on the top
You see?
You see?
Many have come, and many have tried for glory,
but none have achieved it.
Except the chosen.
And that’s the Demigodz.
You got slaves and martyrs.
And then you got the Pharaohs.
The gospel
according to Planetary
Back when they had Rollie Massimino
I pollied passin' C-notes, rockin' Michael Jack and Tito
Psychopathic evil with a rifle and a needle
And started hatin' people, I don’t trust niggas neither
So believe us when we say, the heater’s tucked away
Tomorrow, that’s tomorrow, I don’t give a fuck today
I don’t wanna fuck with Dre, I’d rather run with my alliance
If Dre want a verse the motherfucker gotta buy it
I’m better than whoever, put your money where your mouth at
Write the type of panic that could push the whole crowd back
Loud clap, bounce back, I announce that
Man and Demigodz, count that
Pharaoh niggas out back
20 deep, plenty heat
Not too many beef
Them niggas know how it go when the Henny creep
There’s plenty seats you can sit through the horror
Verbal murderer from the criminal authors
I’m the sickest author, slicker talker, raid your liquor locker
Lick a shot for all the shitty authors I turn into chicken fodder
Prime and proper, bitches grip the cock and it’s a shocker
'Cause it’s bigger than Chewbacca
Mount Olympus, it’s a monster fam
No atoms, I go at 'em, I can conquer land
Stomp your man, have him Mario Batali on the lamb
I can contraband without protesting 80s arcade games that made these grenades
bang
Fuck your lame gang, I got 11 Pits in Hicksville
Five will cuddle, six kill
I’mma Six Million Dollar Man, I got a sick skill so sit still
I know it’s tough for you, I’m number one you’re number two
Yet I’m still the shit, so what you got a gun or two?
You wouldn’t use 'em if a criminal kicked in your door
Raping your wife on the kitchen floor like «Bitch give me more.»
Plus your little diss is Swiss, you got no interest in war
You don’t click a .44, you say, «click on my store»
Haha
I just don’t want you to go out and commit murder!
Please… We’ll go some
place else, some place where it doesn’t have to be like this
Oh really?
Tell me, where is that place?
Where is it?
In what remote corner of
this country, no the entire goddamn planet?
Now you tell me where such a place
is and I promise you that I’ll never hurt another human being as long as I live.
Just one place!
Them subliminal rhymes can earn you a little casket nap
Put your life on the line I bet I answer that
A broke nigga who rap, I’m flippin' birds on a block
You joke nigga, you the type to spit a verse to a cop
You a dead man walkin', similar to the Crypt-Keeper
Got niggas worked up for nothin' like a dick teaser
Who got you fooled with that high octane?
Now I’m on some bullshit like Luol Deng
My speech is precise so weapons that is lethal are mics
A rebel will make the Devil say «I need Christ in my life»
You a pretender
Cross that line, fuck tryin' to injure, man I end ya
You a fag showin' your gender
It’s funny how cats act goon believin' they rap tunes
But they speakin' 'til they leakin' from stab wounds
Now consider yourself blessed motherfuckers.
Bass drop!