| Friday night, street’s packed
|
| Headed out, no plans to reach back
|
| Thoughts of a tongue tied, meet with yads
|
| Hold up to the sunrise, breach the flat
|
| Call the man, I’m like «Where you at?»
|
| Cross the tracks, we ain’t afraid of that
|
| We are spraying tags, we done drained the yat
|
| Got a bus cause a man found gates to crash
|
| We green light, wave flag
|
| Out of the flash like we race drag
|
| Blow thick smoke out a chain of fags
|
| Can be sipping on shots till I faint and gag
|
| I’mma raid the bar when she serving them
|
| Pass out the bottle, can we merk the ten?
|
| Heads swimming hard in a swirl of Gin
|
| Wake up in a daze that can work again
|
| Goon bags, loose yads
|
| Run up in your flats with your goose flats
|
| That new crack, just swagger
|
| Crewboard looking like lil' blaggers
|
| Bellboy, no looks
|
| Flipped on the fifth of those gold manors
|
| Name ain’t written in no books
|
| We ain’t leaving till hoes bladdered
|
| Wise living, loose world
|
| Lifestyle brimming with loose girls
|
| Live women, choose swerve
|
| Mans all peeking on two thirds
|
| Three Q’s, one milli
|
| G dubs speaking like hillbillies
|
| Still illy, fuck father
|
| Your bitch calling me godfather
|
| Put it, in a
|
| Bag, zip it
|
| Shut it, get that
|
| Paper, moving
|
| (We bring goon bags, brother we gon' do blags
|
| Got that true swag, everything with new tags)
|
| This be that, new shit
|
| Old dog flipping new tricks
|
| Out here living like two hicks
|
| Chicks all skinny like toothpicks
|
| Camera’s on, it don’t prove shit
|
| Crack it on and you’ll choose dick
|
| Dash it on and you’ll move with
|
| Tag along and you’ll get used quick
|
| Tag along and get moved on
|
| Move along and get moved to
|
| I ain’t out here trying to make a friend
|
| So say your piece so I’mma school through
|
| New school? |
| Fuck a plan
|
| I’mma move on so fuck a fight
|
| Man like us stay out of sight, out of mind
|
| Plus, I’m out tonight
|
| Hangover, hurt like my head’s crushed by a Land Rover
|
| So I go for the boot till a man sober
|
| I’m in the zone, I sip petroleum, I hit the drone
|
| Smoke spliffs alone, won’t shift
|
| In a paranoid fit at home, lets stick the phone
|
| They call in the blonde, fix my tone
|
| I might drift the void till my liver’s blown
|
| My kidneys shunk and my heart’s a mess
|
| Five parts the tar, five parts the stress
|
| Surf the fine line, patrol the edge
|
| Scrape the foot of my sofa dreads
|
| I hit rock bottom and give to death
|
| Chain smoking rest there’s nothing left
|
| Till I fuck my breath, turn tucks for death
|
| Six feet deep, laid to rest
|
| (We bring goon bags, brother we gon' do blags
|
| Got that true swag, everything with new tags) |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Goon Bags , by - Foreign Beggars. Song from the album The Uprising, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп