Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Motown 25, artist - eLZhi. Date of issue: 15.10.2019
Song language: English
Motown 25 |
| I end careers, years, pierce ears fierce with spears |
| They say I’m gifted, get lifted like the beers in Cheers |
| Catch a thunder bolt, pockets stay lump from hundred notes |
| Stunning quotes make you run your coat while the sun’s afloat |
| Prehaps, my skill is real as G Rap’s, it feel as ill |
| As concealing drills in the knee caps |
| Your funny style get three snaps in the circle |
| When off the purple and greens |
| I’m higher than the jeans on Urkel, then I murk you |
| Bust tecs, the lead sparking now who be my next head target |
| I lift up, roll out, like the red carpet |
| Say my name three times in the mirror and if I hear you |
| I’ll appear clearer, extend both arms and pull you nearer |
| Pound for pound, I’m pretty live on the mic |
| And keep it flooded like Mike, on Motown 25 |
| Put your soul on ice and sold it for a whole known price |
| I’m nice, keep a knot swole on dice |
| Grin is sarcastic, the way my pen’ll spark acid on the bar |
| Whether in the crib or the car, blast it |
| Son is a, prob' rob funds from your publisher |
| While his dogs put his guns to you like the Punisher |
| Or the Terminator, flow is harder than a German major |
| Midtermin' paper, the kid burns the saber |
| Striking cats, how you want it, gats, spike or bats |
| I know you liking that, I stay sharper than Viking hats |
| Exhale, blowed mist, served you with a cold dish |
| Niggas vomiting, bowels moving, they can’t hold piss |
| EL and Royce, double team, hotter than a cup of steam |
| Club your spleen and bury you, just as deep as a submarine |
| Flawless, should be that very reason you applaud us |
| You saw us laying down a law just as raw as crawfish |
| You met your death and although, I took away your breath |
| And I ran, I still left with a grand like Theft Auto |
| You little niggas can’t touch me, baby |
| Okay, maybe Jay-Z or maybe not |
| Pardon if I sound lazy, I’ve been puffing crazy |
| Writing Puff’s shit, so mothafucka, fuck you, pay me |
| Or lay down in your feces, my guns talk, I’m speechless |
| My pen’s that Teller, I bends that fella, now peep this |
| I eat you and then wash you down with who you eat with |
| Me and eLZhi, yeah, we split, he’s sick, I’m sick |
| I’m sick of how sick he is, he’s sick of how sick me is |
| Me, baby me, sickest in the D, since the Shady LP |
| I can fuck, that’s what ladies tell me |
| '83, I was fucking, I was six |
| Head in my momma’s daycare, yeah, that was nothing, I’m the shit |
| Back into my rhyme again, niggas call me arrogant |
| That’s because I’m confident, I found it when I found a pen |
| Three deals later, three meals later, tryna win |
| About to be signed again, that’s right, I’m bout to clown again |
| Knock-knock, who is that? |
| It’s the cat that’ll snap |
| Throw cheese in the trap, on your homie, you a rat |
| Ha-ha-ha, I’m back, matter of fact I’ve never left |
| Those who say they ain’t expect it, can’t accept it |
| Haters left this boy no choice but to blow |
| Fuck another ho from on another pole, fuck a show |
| Fuck a flow, I’m about getting money fast |
| While you rapping or perhaps you hustling sucka-slow |
| Ice glow, sticky green, Bush on sicky team |
| Capone, put powerful White Boy Ricky cream |
| Get him straight if he leans, fifty fiends in a line |
| Nickel Nine, been around, niggas you would kneel around |
| From Milan to Iran, I’m a don, now when I’m around |
| Niggas calmin down, eatin like it’s Ramadan |