Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Fightin Words, artist - Diabolic. Album song Fightin Words, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 15.09.2014
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: War Horse
Song language: English
Fightin Words |
| Check one, check two. |
| 'Bolic to the rescue |
| F-U-C-K the world when I step through |
| Got that fresh, new, real, raw, uncut |
| Dumbed down underground, I educate these dumb fucks |
| Poured out blood guts, filled it with some lime green |
| Crystallized purple hairs to burn and share with my team |
| Fuck y’all. |
| Cops seen the picture on the wide screen |
| And the Rebel Army’ll calmly leave the crime scene |
| Exhibit A: baggy pants on the footage live stream |
| No hipster shit, so my dick can fit inside jeans |
| Nineteen Nineties shit—New York’s a warzone |
| Knock your lights out, cut the power to your jawbone |
| Lord knows Diabolic’s about to make a pit stop |
| Where these pussies hang like those pics of Little Kim’s twat |
| Psycho with a sick plot like Alfred Hitchcock |
| Hip hop, stomp you out in flip flops with gym socks |
| Soldiers, lace your boots up. |
| Ladies, lose your high heels |
| I’m not what you’re used ta—difference is I’m real |
| And I feel it’s my job to do something about that |
| Fuck the guys feeling otherwise—meet me out back |
| . |
| These are Fightin Words |
| . |
| These are Fightin Words |
| Yo, check the game plan. |
| I don’t want to shake hands |
| Rather see you face-plant like Weezy on a skate ramp |
| Caveman missing links in my DNA strands |
| My supporters would slap the shit out Little Wayne fans |
| I don’t like the radio. |
| I don’t care where Jay stands |
| I don’t Watch the Throne or Kanye in his Ray-Bans |
| State champ treated like Elvis out in Graceland |
| They pale in comparison, albino to a spray tan |
| Fat cats, paint cans, break dance cardboard |
| Art form Mashed Out—"How About Some Hardcore?" |
| Sharp sword or razor blade, ain’t afraid to start wars |
| Hard body, Diabolic’s bones’ll break a shark’s jaw |
| Far more raw, that «Frontline» bomb drop |
| Nonstop, slaughter every corn pop on top |
| Songs hot like your mom’s twat feeling Sean’s cock |
| Full-court buzzer-beater, winning was a longshot |
| Soldiers, lace your boots up. |
| Ladies, lose your high heels |
| I’m not what you’re used ta—difference is I’m real |
| And I feel it’s my job to do something about that |
| Fuck the guys feeling otherwise—meet me out back |
| . |
| These are Fightin Words |
| . |
| These are Fightin Words |
| Soldier, move up. |
| I don’t give two fucks |
| Who, what, when, why, where. |
| Don’t confuse us |
| Soldier, move up. |
| I don’t give two fucks |
| Who, what, when, why, where. |
| These are Fightin Words |
| DJ’s ill breaks, Serato was a milk crate |
| Rhyme to beats on a maxi single, mass appeal tape |
| Labels making stacks. |
| Table scraps on my meal plate |
| Kept it real with a record deal and it feels great |
| Kill snakes, cut throats, strategize the utmost |
| Art of war, paint a masterpiece with every brush stroke |
| Shooting for the stars—crosshairs on my gun scope |
| Training like Rocky Balboa with a jump rope |
| Chugged Colt 45, caught a high from blunt smoke |
| Now Big L and Pun’s ghost live through what I just wrote |
| Come close, focus on the beast as he mutates |
| Screw-faced like your boombox ate my Clue tape |
| Fools shake ‘cause I booby trapped their escape hatch |
| Payback, fighting ‘til the death in a cage match |
| May slap your favorite DJ until he plays that |
| Rare dope, hypodermic needle in the haystack |
| Soldiers, lace your boots up. |
| Ladies, lose your high heels |
| I’m not what you’re used ta—difference is I’m real |
| And I feel it’s my job to do something about that |
| Fuck the guys feeling otherwise—meet me out back |
| . |
| These are Fightin Words |
| . |
| These are Fightin Words |
| . |
| These are Fightin Words |
| . |
| These are Fightin Words |