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