Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Frontin' Ass Ducks, artist - Godfather Don. Album song The Ill Funk Freaker, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 21.11.2004
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: One Leg Up
Song language: English
Frontin' Ass Ducks |
Benign minds that rhyme can’t fuck with the clandestine |
Hand-to-mind, my line taps a nine like a cat o' nine |
Mutilating cadavers and digits. |
Spit it out |
From my trachea, makes me an alche… my |
Chemicals attack livers of niggas that rap with a |
TEC-9. |
I’ll wreck rhymes and smack local rap figures |
Pitter-patter, my sickle splatter your little matter |
Corrosed and mummified, encased in the brittle batter |
But, suckers, I’ll run up your tookus, so talk shit |
I’ll walk with ligaments that’s caustic ‘cause I lost it |
Forced it, the heavenly follows ‘til my tomorrow |
So I don’t see you. |
I see terror, medical horror |
I trigger rigor mortis, meticulous when I’m kicking |
This habitual, virtual body of carnival rituals |
I’m hurting you, innards and stomped gut get hacked on |
Contents coagulated, I managed to rap |
Long, beyond the door lies more guys to trample |
A flesh-eater fetus with more eyes to sample |
Implements of pain, hang in my morgue with ran- |
-cid meat, sheets that reeks of, like, dog shit |
Bags of body is exhumed, entombed, then I bury them |
Smitten, shitting, walking ‘round my sanitarium |
Go run, tell. |
Son, Hell is better ta |
Avoiding ill niggas polishing skulls like The Predator, yeah |
My technique’ll wreck sheets from Palestine to clan- |
-destine, I’ll plant a mine to destroy rhymes that can’t align |
I’ll stomp ghosts and play high-post upon your steeple |
My eye cries red as I reveal ill-type evil |
I peeped, through flesh, the spools of fools in my bar space |
So get blown the fuck away like Monty did in Scarface |
A bizarre race that Allah chased. |
Give me my pa’s |
Face. |
I’m taking revenge on niggas that pa hates |
The mortician creating incisions with wit precision |
You’re wishing and then you are chilling with hella Christians |
I list ten men that deserve to get blasted |
And do work as I smirk, their skins are gently plastered |
On these hollow halls, balls and smashed, drained, and simmered |
Dinner the pitfalls that could fall on niggas' innards |
I am so depressed that I let |
Off rounds at cops in broad daylight without a vest, just |
Testing and you’re destined to rest less |
Than zero. |
I’m a nigga that loves to blast, I’m the ant-hero |
Ozone |
Depletions. |
Zones increase? |
Then take the ville gases |
That make me break out, like, laugh like your masses |
As for your pastor, he’s past a spot of humor |
He can’t mess with a spirit that snap necks with Moctezuma |
Design exhumer, sucking souls to leave a carcass |
Crustified remains of brains reduced to porridge |
Polysaccharide from the crack of mind starts to |
Dilapitize my insides, I desecrate where rappers die |
My eyes glisten, wishing my girl would listen |
I’m disincarnate, devoid of life, and now my mission is |
To imprison, design benevolence to crucifixion |
Spittle typhus, infect my enemies through use of diction |
Rancid, run sticks plus clips and snub tips and tons |
Of NoDoz. |
To keep my past up, I blast my photos |
Heron, barbiturates sit on my dresser, they’re wre- |
-cking me to run to water, succumb to pressure |
Nevertheless, I’ll progress the shit that bust your earlobe |
I’ll walk a thin line between a murderer and hero, yeah |