| It’s uh Mr 'If The-If The City Had A'
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| Turn the bass up till the place jump and the window shatter
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| Miss me with the banter, my man, I been a factor
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| The benefactor with ink — your man’s the missing chapter
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| Phizzle, this a banger, Illy let’s get it cracking
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| Twist the fabric of time with a rhyme, my style is systematic
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| I scribble something so ill you wish that you didn’t catch it
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| Twist a fat one and sprinkle this here with a little magic
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| When you and your friends rhyme it’s bedtime, I’m snoring
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| Whether or not I headline, yes I’m supporting
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| Flavour drip through the speaker when I’m recording
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| If charisma’s a disease I could be dead by the morning
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| My man, we are the entire fuck out here
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| Lights up, Ryan’s up, fire up the sound gear
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| Been accused of the recklessness but I don’t dispute the evidence
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| I just reload the clip and shoot the messenger
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| Hey it’s that bloke from the water’s edge
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| One stroke gets your daughter wet
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| You’re getting served like you haven’t ordered yet
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| I score a rep by putting verses in the morgue
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| Till my services are more sought after than a whore’s
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| I’m getting plenty buddy, how you getting yours?
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| I’m getting paid the pen and page, add a little more
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| We smack a stage till it needs to be restored
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| And I do this shit because I love it not because I’m bored
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| Moved away from Beauy but it’s pumping through my heart
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| Now I represent the Frankston line and going fucking hard
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| Aiming for the stars, been rolling from the start
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| Now I’m sharing tracks with motherfuckers holding golden plaques
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| Braithwaite Steeze, Wild animal mentality
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| And haters getting mad at rappers doubling their salary
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| They’re talking shit, I ain’t hearing what they telling me
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| The colour that they seeing’s greener than a stick of celery
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| Celery
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| Yeah
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| Introductions aside, you askin' who am I?
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| I’m the owner of a gallery, your tour guide
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| And you can leave with stained shirts
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| 'Cause tryna understand how my brain works is suicide
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| I got a beautiful mind covered in sewer slime
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| And if you look a little closer there’s a clue inside
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| To get past the putrid grime like few have tried
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| Then you could possibly ruin your eyes
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| Am I crazy? |
| You decide
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| All I know is my rhymes are so pimped that I write them in a suit and tie
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| I’m Superman flying through the sky
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| But you guys wouldn’t recognise a hero in a new disguise
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| Life’s like shooting the dice or gambling
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| But you just rambling, standing with your hand on the mic
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| I ain’t battling an amateur, get your calibre right
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| I’ll leave you pussies afraid like you’re Hannibal’s wife
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| Check the floodgates (what) that door needs closing shut
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| They’re like a fuckface in porn scenes, I know they suck
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| Put ‘em on parole so they can walk free to go get fucked
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| Get your own style 'cause y’all seem to be clones of us
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| With no character, boring stoner cunts
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| It’s so embarrassing, it’s like the Portuguese showing up
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| The Spanish with Brazil, the whole East is owned by us
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| I have 'em crashing at will like torpedoes blowing up (boom)
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| Hit the battleship and all fleets that floated sunk
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| Quicker than a cattle whip on raw meat drove to cuts
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| The prodigal son, since fourteen token bud
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| Still tropical sun with tall trees and coconuts
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| My art sells for peanuts like poor street folk that busk
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| The Cartel Team bust with more heat than smoking guns (blam)
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| One of the finest, If you fought me you only just survived if you’re Irish
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| Four-leaf clover luck
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| Uh
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| If you were gifted then it must have been a lump of coal
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| But still you’re full of yourself like one of them Russian dolls
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| If you’re shooting for the top you should adjust the goals
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| If I walked a mile in your shoes it would crush my soul
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| Saw you live, who would pay though to book yah?
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| If you tried to get some girls there then they overlooked yah
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| Men, men, men like that lame show with Kutcher
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| Total sausage fest like a trade show for butchers
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| Uh, this is Adelaide talking, I’m an animal coursing
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| Through my preys, natural habitat stalking
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| Just hungry, if there’s beef then I’m jabbing my fork in
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| At the mere fuckin' mention of a battle they walking |
| And if not then they got more than your standard death wish
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| Weird, most of them are sweeter than a candy necklace
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| Always got something left to write like I was ambidextrous (yeah)
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| And if my music’s declined. |
| how come my fans accept it? |
| (yo)
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| Chopping up with blunt papes, rocking with a verse
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| Hopping off the runway, dropping in a vert
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| Either way I’m rolling, optimal at worst
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| You ain’t seeing me unless you got binoculars at work (bi-atch)
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| But don’t get mad about it, be a man about it
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| Chin up, it’s brand-spanking steeze, hand back the hand-me-downers
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| Swap those rhymes and swallow pride
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| They still paying dues off 'em on borrowed time
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| And cue my flows monsoon shit
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| You pals dog food, barking up the wrong eucalypt
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| Six-shooters, grip mics
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| We see red and blast like a hoover crip
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| Higher than thread counts on your goose-down dooners, bitch
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| It’s big kahuna shit, and I ain’t heard of you
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| Small fries in big towns, man up or sit down
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| Mercenary spits, hired guns on the disc, bound
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| To kill by the contract, and keep putting hits out |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song 6 Shooter , by - Illy. Song from the album Bring It Back, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп