Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Noon Chuckas, artist - Gangrene. Date of issue: 06.08.2015
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Noon Chuckas |
| The pen is still soiled |
| I spill that oil like Pennzoil |
| Then peel you like tin foil |
| The game has been spoiled |
| Call up that temp lawyer |
| Blame it on the sanity so they could get help for you |
| I play these bars over that Dorner |
| That lost soldier, that sober |
| That ogre, that boss told you 'It's over,' then dog, it’s over |
| Kid keep the nines with the Cobra, that Sly nigga Stallone’d ya |
| That Rock and Roll Hall of Fame material after I stone ya |
| You a loner, I specialize in aromas |
| I let 'em sniff what I roll up, a glimpse of that California |
| Then put 'em in that deep level of a coma |
| They rolling up all that zona, see, y’all don’t want me to chauffeur |
| See, y’all don’t want me to show or come and fuck up your sofa |
| Bunch of little crumbs like I was dumping a toaster |
| Bunch of fucking bums chill when y’all heads post up |
| Before y’all roast up, we’ll be there to get that Hope cut |
| Ayo, hold up |
| Sit yo' bitch ass down |
| Count this right here |
| Get money, fuck bitches, turn knobs, touch switches |
| While I cut pies and serve dishes |
| Smell the scent from the kitchen, I’m on a mission |
| Keep the low from the toaster oven until it crispin' |
| Play the door while I perform, you collect admission |
| Needles skipping, the loop’s on repetition |
| Palms itching, stand on the mound of dirt like a pitcher |
| While I’m rubbing my money grip, it’s for friction |
| It’s the bumbaclot clot rasta caucasian blowing wax |
| Limbs relax like a tropical vacation |
| See me in the public, same on the mini-cam |
| Compose Doctor No, Terry Lewis and Jimmy Jam |
| Rhythm and Blues Brothers |
| Flow through the gutter like used rubbers |
| Chain swinging like some Noon Chuckas |
| I’m a criminal advocate, money magnet |
| Saran wrap the work, you looking comfortable bagging it |
| Under pressure, I’m a survivor |
| I could throw 'em a time or let 'em expire |
| Rocking the fresh J’s, white T attire |
| With dirty Levis, nobody flier |
| They must have wings to achieve getting higher |
| Remember, y’all the customers and we the suppliers |
| 'Cause we distributing that high to the clients with an institute |
| We teaching the pilots how to fly it |
| See us broken down into a science, read the signs |
| It said it’s full of chemicals inside it |
| Like cooking got it bubbling and frying |
| And it’s only trouble 'cause you niggas know it’s death defying |
| I bare hand scrap, trying rumble with a lion |
| And I’m an animal, who the fuck you eyeing? |
| 'Cause you know we ain’t buying it, we supplying it |
| Sending ships pirating while they rioting |
| Aargh! |