Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Right Here, artist - Diabolic. Date of issue: 27.01.2015
Song language: English
Right Here |
| Feels like I’m locked in hell’s gate and God’s my cellmate |
| Saying «plot this jailbreak, pop the cops who tailgate!» |
| You sealed your fate, prying inside my business |
| To find a mind as scientific as Mayan hieroglyphics |
| As God’s my witness, I’ll spit viral sickness |
| Like Bible-scripted Black Plague in the last day’s final minutes |
| On primal vicious grind, 'til my vinyl shipments climb |
| Through the grapevine to be the finest vintage wine |
| Sky’s the limit? |
| Fine, I’m in your atmosphere |
| The racketeer the sky into falling on your rap career |
| And I ain’t stacking near the millions I’m worth |
| 'cuz saying something ill in a verse and having skills are a curse |
| But still, I got a feeling that this villain at work’ll be |
| More chillin' than still-born children at birth |
| I’m the king, my underlings are building my church |
| And when your mom close her eyes to pray, I’m stealing her purse |
| Now, God willing I become the illest on earth |
| Where love is hate, so I just pray your feelings get hurt |
| My life is tragic, so it’s only right I right the madness |
| Like being psychopathic’s my right of passage |
| Don’t care what the price of gas is, I’ll splash it on you |
| While I’m lighting matches and put out the flames with nitric acid |
| Spiteful bastard, I’m back with a vengeance |
| A fifth of Jack and Mac-11 to capture the essence |
| I’m just an artist getting closer to the edge |
| So when I go over, know I put my soul in what I said |
| For real, 'Bolic ain’t focused on the bread |
| I had enough of that, so if you with me where the fuck you at? |
| (Where the fuck you at?) We right here! |
| Fuck your gunfights, all I need is one mic and crowd time |
| And I can outshine the sunlight on cloud 9 |
| For now I’m climbing uphill and grinding |
| 'til I chill reclining on a diamond-studded silver lining |
| Fearless rhyming, but those skeptics don’t get it |
| Most said I dig my own grave, I’m too poetic |
| Stress like Po said, let’s Organize Konfusion |
| I’m just a microphone fiend, always high, using |
| The rush intoxicated me and fortified the movement |
| And plus I get to slaughter guys, all for my amusement |
| Drawing my conclusion, don’t need a label budget |
| So I’m saying «fuck it» like I’m way above it, you can hate or love it |
| Raised in Suffolk, fighting like I’m Razor Ruddock |
| Without a pot to piss in, urinate in public |
| In the home of Rakim, Erick Sermon, R.A. |
| the Rugged |
| Diabolic’s dancing with the devil angel-dusted |
| Bring the ruckus, let’s rumble in the slums |
| So I can punch you in the ribs 'til they’re puncturing your lungs |
| I’m just wondering, how the fuck you doubling your funds |
| By lying about scratching off the numbers on a gun? |
| Cuz the muthafuckas where I’m from feel inside |
| That even though Dilla died, hiphop is still alive |
| And it will survive the fake thugs talking tough |
| When I click the nine and get a dial tone and call your bluff |