Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song W.M.D., artist - Heltah Skeltah. Album song D.I.R.T. Da Incredible Rap Team, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 29.09.2008
Record label: Duck Down
Song language: English
W.M.D. |
| Yo, two-two-two, five thirty-two, thirty-eight |
| Four-four-four, five, increase the murder rate |
| Great, shit can vertebrae, fuck up your backbone |
| Snatch ya backpack, nigga, fuck up your wack poems |
| You can’t rap, slap his natch with the black chrome |
| This whipping was a warning, so ya take your ass back home |
| Nigga, see I pop shit with the same kinda guns that T.I. |
| got knocked with |
| Extra clip carrier, quick to click burry ya Both talk tough, but bitch, I’mma bit scarier |
| Uh, Rambo guns, Commando guns |
| Catch you at the beach, will heat up your sandals, son |
| Fuck with a vet, best believe you fuck with the best |
| Put a slug in the revolver that’ll fuck up your flesh |
| Put a slug in the revolver and play Russian Roulette |
| Fuck it, I try, I do it, fuck if you die |
| Ruck, is the, luckiest fucker alive |
| I went from nothing to something a couple of times |
| I got a gun with a nozzle pump, cock back, we dump |
| Lift ya, who said white men can’t jump |
| I know, dead men talk cuz niggas get caught |
| But if ya, body a juror then a killa gon’talk |
| Do ya biddy bop to the block, goodbye to your tail |
| Shit, a city cop, city shots, I am Sean Bell |
| Semi auto four, leave your head looking real gory |
| Be a ghost before Halloween, that’s true story |
| That I blink like a transporter moving your order |
| Quarterback spiral like bullets hit your autora |
| We ain’t here to warn 'em, bring the water trigger, we squeezin' |
| Twenty minute shootouts, clip empty we leaving |
| When I jump in the porsche, hop in the charger |
| Fans can’t catch the boy, I’m an artful dodger |
| You know who in charge, get your whole team washed |
| Then go in and buy guns with the money from these bars |
| Yeah, the flow rapper, forties and automatic |
| Arm tatted, chron’addict, it’s on when the God rapping |
| The dog grabbing, my paws, palming the double action |
| Pump blasting, punk bastards, slump backwards |
| Rap mastered, got cash? |
| They all plastic |
| Since graphics, all of my cons, all savage |
| Lord of War, Nicholas Cage, sick cannons |
| Spit talents, til we the last Clik standing |
| Timbs branded, scuffed up from kicking asses |
| Bucktown, we shoot first, then ask questions |
| This is my gun, this is my weapon |
| This is for fun, this is for sending niggas to heaven |
| Sing 'em a sermon, I heard somebody needed a reverend |
| Heard he was telling, the bird, he sent a word to my brethren |
| Parabellum to the back of your melon |
| You want the rest? |
| See the news at eleven |
| It go nine millimeter, mack 10, mack 11, twelve gauge |
| Have your monkey maggot ass on channel seven |
| Telling like, they shooting, that just how we making you Duck Down |
| This go round, what up now? |
| He said, what, now? |
| You the old mattress bout to get drugged out |
| Like me, I’m so addictive, I’m the newest drug out |
| With guns out, ignorant birds, we dumb foul |
| Run out of shells and you ingrown hairs get plucked out |
| Get smacked with a cap and come loud |
| Rock a pocket rocket, put a drop top on Run’s house |
| I ain’t talking bout horizons when I say 'sun down' |
| Son, down! |
| down for the count, it was just for one round |
| Give me two of those gats that Bruno had |
| On Pluto now, and only on them who hold gat |
| Ain’t that false advertisement? |
| I should sue those fags |
| I’m just playing, you know that! |
| Fuck around these days, these dirty DA’s’ll do your raps |
| Not guilty, but I do know gats, think about it like |
| Seriously… is it true or all raps |
| When I say I put a hole the size of my boot in your back |