Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Gargoyle Serenade, artist - E-40. Date of issue: 25.03.2012
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Gargoyle Serenade |
| Scrapin the pavement with his knuckles, gorilla like with it |
| Run a background check, bet you they say he livid |
| He got a voice out there mayne! |
| He don’t wear a muzzle |
| West coast fixture, disrespect him you in trouble |
| Niggarish nigga, dig that with a shovel |
| Broccoli in the air, gathered up in a huddle |
| 'Bout to blast off — like a space shuttle |
| RealHustlersUnite.com, born in the struggle |
| Cain’t be weak, gotta earn your keep |
| Gotta stay woke while everybody else asleep |
| Cause they dusty mayne, they dirty mayne, they’ll try and sneak |
| Creep up on you from beind and make yo' melon leak |
| Watch yo' back, and yo' front |
| Gotta pack the kind of guns that hunters use to hunt |
| Braveheart, not a punk |
| It can go down at any time, be prepared for funk |
| I was built for this shit, seen cats get peeled in this shit |
| For either flappin they lips, or warrin over a chick |
| Either that or they snitch or owe somebody some chips |
| Used to flea flick and pitch, fucked around and got rich! |
| So damn focused ferocious, man I don’t know if y’all noticed |
| I’m tryin to bubble like sodas it’s funky like halitosis |
| Stanky gritty no pity, it’s a killer in every city |
| On the ave where it’s mannish, posted up with the many |
| Uhh! |
| Back from a leave of absence |
| Got the block pregnant, now it’s havin contractions |
| All boys, not girls like the Braxtons |
| Sellin that white like the Kardashians |
| On the track like a weave! |
| Loaded as fuck, geeked |
| Got a pint of that there oil and a zap of broccoli |
| And I wish a bitch WOULD, try to slide through I’m ready |
| I’ma send him back in a box and I ain’t talkin 'bout a Chevy |
| I’m totin somethin heavy, that’ll fuck a fucker UP! |
| A cinnamon roll, look like a snake curled up |
| Ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka, goes the hundred round drum |
| WOOOOOO, the amba-lambs, here they come |
| Flatlined, folks cryin, «My baby was an angel sir!» |
| But little did she know that her lil' devil was a finagler |
| A robber, a thief, a stealer, always into somethin |
| A peeler, runnin, from the po'-po' and the soil, he had it comin |
| BEOTCH BEOTCH! |