Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Rec-Room Therapy , by - Ghostface Killah. Release date: 31.12.2006
Song language: English
Rec-Room Therapy |
| A’ight, now, this is how we gon' do this shit |
| You know’m sayin'? |
| Niggas wasn’t out in the streets back then |
| When was doing this shit son, you know what I mean? |
| Yeah, check the story |
| I done flushed bags of powder down project toilets |
| You could of found of me on the steps dusted, unable to call it |
| Jums in my pocket, the rental was stolen |
| Tapping pockets on the local drug dealers, just to see what they holding |
| I know, niggas with crack viles stuck to they colon |
| The acid, done bubbled up, now they stomachs is swollen |
| That just, life in the hood, ceramic glass, who we bag in our stash |
| The ultraviolet haze, we hit it and pass |
| We toast to the Ghost of old days, yeah, old ager huh |
| We rap renegades, must stay paid |
| + (Ghostface Killah) |
| Get money (get money) Get money, Ghost (get money) |
| Get money (get money) Get money, Ghost (get money) |
| Big fluffed out gooses on, Stan Smiths |
| The housing cops can suck our dicks, we jumping out of convertible matchbox |
| shits, next drip inhaling |
| Chilling, my throat frozen, my orange brick |
| Bottles of Cru', bitches with Baby Phats, they swinging ax |
| They singing, you still blinging, daddy, now bring it back |
| To smoke these rap niggas, honey, I’mma need a match |
| To bust the game wide open, I’mma need an ax |
| I juggle this, practice, smuggle heroin in the cactus |
| Keep it hood, I still go and fuck a fat bitch |
| Actress, slinging the backs of five Cleopatras |
| A cocaine Chef, I stretch money like elastic, nigga |
| My raps is bigger, dynamics with the muscle advantage |
| Jay Cutler on dust, when I blam shit |
| Yo, we been bagging since 18, kid, Polo rugs on with gloves on |
| Rented cars, fronting on winning broads |
| Gum slow, half moon, leather pants, Avia' days |
| Keep your hands off my blunt and my waves |
| Benetton, Superman bomb, everybody in the lobby, we clapping |
| Hats on, protecting your moms, you know how we play |
| Spray something down if the team say |
| It’s on, I dedicate my lines to the PJ’s |
| Triple beams, Pyrex jars, smoking nickle weeds |
| All we did is look mad fly, icicle rings |
| Whatever homeboy, you want it? |
| You could get your receipt |
| A little closer, you can sense we got heat, it’s only me |
| Plus four other ill gangstas, we all anxious |
| To blow up your block and spank shit |
| Yo, I’m down for the get down, hit the town, sick the bloodhounds on 'em |
| I rip clowns, I flip pounds, I spit rounds |
| I’m on the prowl, my stomach growl, crushed by the crowd |
| Rush through Loud Records, drop mushroom clouds |
| I’m not a rat, I’m spellbound, I melt down |
| Your G-Force, with heat walks |
| Free falling to a bed of money, bet he’s hungry |
| Spread the honey, big head inside the Humvee |
| Mix lead inside my lungies, spend bread on my Dungarees |
| And such and such, Ghost plugged me with this slut |
| Bitch, don’t hug me, bug me, I’m ugly when I fuck |
| I’m hard like a jungle hunter, bust off in Heather |
| Double cross me, lift your boss off your feet, 'course he’s feather |
| Whatever, whatever, he cried in the Benz |
| Tennis players get fried, playing both sides of the ends |
| Keep your eyes on your friends, cuz they spy for the feds |
| Watch me rise from the dead, I got ties with the dreads |