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