Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Fear Of God, artist - Hell Razah. Date of issue: 27.09.2010
Song language: English
Fear Of God |
| Lights, cameras, and action |
| I write down lyrics of passion |
| A Christ like it’s back then but with a Mac-10 |
| For all the Romans and the Anglo-Saxons |
| That old serpent now turned into a dragon |
| Ever since I was solo I heard 'em taking shots on the low-low |
| Even though it broke my heart, why? |
| Manolo |
| I’m loco, can easily snap without a four-door |
| The wrong one to come up on to get promo |
| Be with Silverback thugs, we give you bear hugs |
| When we bussing our guns you need earplugs |
| If it ain’t war from above then what you scared off? |
| They ain’t use to no cakes so when they choose they fate |
| You get the fiery lakes instead of the golden gates |
| I give bulletproof love so I’m immune to hate |
| So if you’re bugging the gas then I’m a fumigate |
| I’m where the angels and the Son of Man communicate |
| I’m a Rabbi samurai, sword for outta nine |
| Say goodbye to my pop at five |
| And inspire for the All-Seeing-Eye |
| Inside the studio booth could be the alibi |
| Salute the El Shaddai or each and every tribe |
| You need a Heavenly mind you wanna read my vibe |
| I’m on another page (You on the wrong chapter) |
| Another chalice of grand coo |
| Cali kush and visual bamboo |
| This year we flip our money like an Al Green sample |
| Soon to blow, we ain’t talking bout ya birthday candles |
| I’m back cause a rap left you a bad example |
| When you gamble you lose like the Watergate Scandal |
| My handle on the trey pound is rubber grip |
| Go and get any dog you stick and I’m a kill 'em like Michael Vick |
| I sit like I’m in the cockpit of the mother-ship |
| Your diamonds is conflict compared to my conscious |
| I’m in the zone, call me Ron Sterling but just a lil darker |
| The legendary rap Charlie Parker |
| The Godfather with a sharpie marker |
| More smarter, so I got a better business partner |
| Jackie Robinson whips, Brooklyn Dodgers |
| I’m J.A. |
| Rogers with a chrome revolver |
| You need Viagra pills to go Carter |
| I’m more sharper then the ice pick |
| My mic sick, got the flu virus |
| Started seance for ghost writers |
| Go head and sell me out to Pontius Pilate |
| They blocked their numbers and they call me private |
| Too many foe tech conversations |
| Y’all don’t really want no confrontation |
| Abomination of desolation, got Obama pacing |
| Back and forth, blessed be the patient |
| They said I should of been an outpatient |
| Inside of hospitals it’s Satan’s matrix |
| For being God’s favorite who loved Jacob but he hated Essau |
| Hit the detonator for the C-4 on the Eastern seaboard |
| For all the soldiers that’s in the street war |
| I breathe for the younger children that’s on the sea shore |
| And this circus of this chitterlings circuit |
| Same Sambo’s but different curtains |
| So I don’t end up as a missing person |
| Or bystander when I’m spitting verses |
| FEMA coffins ain’t no need for hearses |
| Turn ya gun into the nearest Churches |