Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Clipse of Doom, artist - Ghostface Killah. Date of issue: 31.12.2005
Song language: English
Clipse of Doom |
| Aiyyo, turn those lights down while I’m recording! |
| Matter 'fact y’all niggas get the fuck out the room, G! |
| Straight up! |
| Sipping on that bullshit Budweiser! |
| Nah’mean yo. |
| what? |
| Fuck you too, nigga! |
| 'Kind of pants you got on motherfucker, Capris?! |
| Bitch ass nigga, go get ya feet done! |
| Eat a dick nigga! |
| Catch me in the 80's drop |
| Old school Mercedes with a brand new baby Glock |
| Right from my Lady’s sock with two bodies on it |
| Capricorn, Aquarius |
| Lost so much blood, these bitch niggas in they periods |
| They say I be living the role, like 'Pac in Juice |
| And only fuck with fly bitches that can fly and boost |
| And they ears be chandeliers, lit up like a lamp, Who cares?! |
| They cooch is fierce, the only thing loose is hairs |
| That’s right y’all, if a rap nigga say my name I’m a fight y’all |
| Fuck a state, light charge |
| My predicate status, irrelevant |
| My man got the big rap sheet that’s outweighing two elephants |
| Jumbo shits from New Orleans |
| Players and Pimps that bit off Fiends |
| Quick, switch with the hands, Powder blue wally’s is dyed, Vanilla Bally’s is |
| mean |
| Can’t none of y’all motherfuckers fuck with my team, Uh! |
| Aiyyo we the live niggas holding heat on the street corners |
| Sic the beasts on you, turn mothers to mourners |
| Money launderers, neighborhood coroners, place bodies in bags |
| Tango with dirty Cash, Cocaine jacks |
| «Kings of the Hill», out to blow like propane gas |
| Package the raw, Theodore, We got the game on smash |
| Cause we cut from the same cloth |
| Big guns ready to bang off |
| Slide off the cables and take the rings off! |
| We hold the weight of four Synagogues |
| Jelly’d uptown in them beat down rented cars |
| Going mad wetting 'em |
| Milk cash, heavy tecks, hood rats, sexing 'em |
| Paris crew, little dudes, please! |
| I was repping 'em |
| Niggas couldn’t come through (word) |
| That’s when the block was like wallpaper, loved sticking niggas like crazy glue |
| Blackouts happened, God forbid don’t be around! |
| The Bag Lady will murk you and let off in the next town! |
| She struck two times, get caught, good luck blood, it ain’t no Heinz |
| Blow a hockey puck hole in the back of your spine |
| She put two cut up mirrors in the place of your eyes |
| So when the cops look they see theyselves, they all gonna die |
| Its the tale of the Crips and Bloods, pimps and thugs |
| Get your face bashed in on the concrete rug |
| On that note I’m a say peace! |
| Theodore! |
| Word to Darryl Mack’s teeth! |
| Yo, Ayo I’ll break every bone in your wrist |
| Smack you in the back of your head on the block while you holding your dick |
| My semi, they call it the crouching tiger |
| A hundred bowls of Total is trash, because my lead eat through fibers |
| Peel your potato like Ore-Ida |
| On the day of your death people had candles but couldn’t find no lighter |
| Fuck your mural! |
| Fuck your hood! |
| You ain’t a street legend like me! |
| Blake Carrington holding the Dynasty |
| I muffle motherfuckers up like Meineke |
| And write a thousand bar verse that all rhymes with «E» |
| Jewel thief, Shizzam bangles, in the vault deep |
| And cruising deserts mad heavy into salt treats |
| I’m the taste in Bush’s mouth, nasty |
| Afghanistan missions, gun training in the grassy fatigues |
| Picking niggas off by the Red Sea |
| And did it all for Ghost, sniffing on caffeine! |