| Hook
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| Is that an MC or a BLT?
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| I swear down, I can’t tell these days,
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| Cause I’ve been spitting fridge-fresh with the full fat bars
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| Ever since I could spell my name,
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| Is that an MC or a filet mignon?
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| I swear down, I can’t tell these days,
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| So then rock to my CP, keeping it gutter
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| And the man, them that felt my pain.
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| Verse 1
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| Yeah, yeah, my pain, migraines are more
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| The sweat in that steg on the dry days of yore
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| The flypapers full of the lies pave the floor
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| And the fast King’s kitchen, why waste the score?
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| I’m in, one of them moves fresh new tremors
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| In a torch-lit lab full of test tube cherubs
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| Is that a plump duck or an egg stew, fella says 'Who?'
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| She did it just to get you jealous, yeah,
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| Yeah, yeah, they say I’m not relevant
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| Is that a bag of gas or a tray of hot venison?
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| Scrape that skeleton, swing it from the rafters
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| Gargling spittle as I’m picking at the carcass
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| Hard barbers, smothered in the mince
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| Waking everyday spitting blood up in my sink
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| Still struggling to blink with my puke glazed eyes
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| So, is that an MC or a huge steak pie, say why
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| Hook
|
| Is that an MC or a BLT?
|
| I swear down, I can’t tell these days,
|
| Cause I’ve been spitting fridge-fresh with the full fat bars
|
| Ever since I could spell my name,
|
| Is that an MC or a filet mignon?
|
| I swear down, I can’t tell these days,
|
| Sipping bark to my CP, keeping it gutter
|
| And the man, them that felt my pain.
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| Verse 2
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| Is that an MC or a ham and egg quiche, on a platter
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| Scraped fresh from a bag of sex cheese
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| Cause I can’t seem to tell what these rapper heads mean
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| When they’re screaming in panic like they’re having wet dreams
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| So, what happened to the scene, is it happening to me?
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| I feel like a tea bag flapping in the breeze
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| Should I kneel down or lean back
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| Or smack you in the teeth?
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| Nah, before it comes to that I think I’ll pack it in and leave
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| Cause I’ve had enough of beasts when its phantom are salmon legs
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| Big man, smashing up their pram and they act depressed
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| Is that a talent or a faggot in a massive dress
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| Nah, that’s a rapper slash scag head with a jagged edge
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| or a fetus with claws
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| Or a penis that talks, that people ignore
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| When you speak and we yawn cause we seem to be bored
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| When you wet lettuce MCs are deep in your thoughts.
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| Hook
|
| Is that an MC or a BLT?
|
| I swear down, I can’t tell these days,
|
| Cause I’ve been spitting fridge-fresh with the full fat bars
|
| Ever since I could spell my name,
|
| Is that an MC or a filet mignon?
|
| I swear down, I can’t tell these days,
|
| Sipping bark to my CP, keeping it gutter
|
| And the man, them that felt my pain. |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Filet Mignon , by - Jam Baxter. Song from the album The Gruesome Features, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп