| Run through the wringer with my bros
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| Can’t even count the years in this game on my fingers and my toes
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| I don’t get open dancing on stage, I bring it to a close
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| Make a sandwich out of my knuckles and bring it to your nose
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| Mink black, the link Turkish
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| I wasn’t randomly selected, I was chose to serve a purpose
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| On many levels, you still scratching the surface
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| Machine’s working, I’m wrapping packages for purchase
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| Speed in a German auto, not with the frivolous convo
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| I’m in a drop rocking a hooded poncho
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| Talking out your ass, something I put my foot in pronto
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| Not the GOAT, but the way I float, it got my name put in the convo
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| Codename: Spy Hunter, I’m fly for the summer
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| Pockets thick like 22 plied lumber
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| Make a spectacle, observe me while I’m doing my numbers
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| Fadeaways with the tongue out when I’m shooting my jumpers
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| Fuck, bigger picture, if I rhyme, it’s just coincidence
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| These are God’s words given to my brain on top of instruments
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| Filtered through a brush, so when I paint it’s never settling
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| It’s reggae roots, rock, or watch Roots rock «Adrenaline»
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| Fuck the rhetoric of any lies attached to me
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| Assassinate my character with rumors and the blasphemy
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| Truth’s crushed to the earth and then it rises
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| While the working-late doctor working late with no surprises
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| I sell 'em stories, I don’t tell 'em the end
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| Only person in this building who could sell 'em this pen
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| (Sell me this pen) Say it slow one time and never say it again
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| 'Cause your day might… and you never know when
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| This my shot, no chase
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| Either get briefed to the Evidence or there ain’t no case
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| Still rock it off my hand so there ain’t no trace
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| I’ve been around the planet but there ain’t no place
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| Make sure the shit is for real, the woodgrain is Stradivari, Venice Chenille
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| We’ll push caine to cash and carry, niggas was I’ll
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| Make sure the visit was healed
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| I put pain in every pad, we been in appeal
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| My bookbag was axillary, niggas could tell
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| Wrist is concealed, riches on top of riches, membership dues
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| We owe a lot of niggas venison til
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| Kind of fit link is from Nigerian grills
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| I keep a plantain in back of the coupe
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| Bullets ta-ting like the grand wizard, spit a thing at your canoot
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| Chewing tobacco, raw lavish is loose
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| Bullets for Babylon, babbling rules
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| 365 donts, 249 patented moves
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| Food la bouche, it’s maize in your mouth with horse radish and goose
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| The poor house is salt, crackers, and soup
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| I’m Munchausen on rappers for juice-where is your proof?
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| Like you could fuck with all of that in the booth
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| I put professors on sabbatical too
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| I put some ketchup on a rapper, little peppercorn ranch and it’s «Mmm»
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| My bishop ran up on your castle in slough, Ravishing Rude
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| Some eucharist was on his hat in a cube
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| The hat flew, his ex let out the crack for fast food
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| (I'm wondering whether or not to go to France next week) |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Sell Me This Pen, artist - Evidence. Album song Weather or Not, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп