Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Die When U Die , by - Jehst. Release date: 09.04.2011
Song language: English
Die When U Die |
| Every dialectic shapeshifts a makeshift shield of hatred |
| I spit fire, quick fire, twist kaya |
| Roll a roach from a ripped flyer |
| Tip toeing over ego trip wire |
| Soft steppin on eggshells as hell beckons |
| A bed of black rose petals on my twenty second |
| With twenty seconds on the clock I kept many guessin' |
| A game of death threats met with defiance |
| So I bring stones for the riots |
| While the right side of the brain extends through computer science |
| Flicks fictionalise our lives |
| In alliance with the Queen in the core of the hive |
| Breeding parasites |
| The wise read and analyse the scrolls |
| Stolen souls dissolve in alcohol |
| Master drunken pole |
| A cold-hearted defence in this dungeon hole |
| I hold hope for the globe in a closed palm |
| Locked in a gold heart |
| Lost and emotionally charged |
| I chart progress through this pain staking process |
| Elimination of the grotesque (no less) |
| This overblown mess left grown men stressed and suicidal |
| Cyanide drips from the vinyl |
| My vital signs fade, I’m trapped in a pessimist’s mind-state |
| A frozen emotional ice age |
| My words form pictures |
| Jigsaws built from torn scriptures |
| A warped image, a collage of small figments |
| Inter-related, creative with raw English |
| I walk with born sinners who talk business |
| Subs and permanent fixtures |
| Medicine man sippin elixirs |
| Wettin my lips and lickin the rizlas |
| Listening to enemy transmissions |
| Sittin' here pickin the splinters out of my flesh |
| The fresh script inker |
| Indica stick sticky fingers |
| Balanced on the brink of drinking binges |
| While friends sink syringes into their skin |
| And it could all end in an instance |
| With no one to discipline the infants |
| Walking the ledge I stay nimble as ninjas |
| My pen nib inches closer and closer |
| The ghosts in my dome stay closed in a coma |
| Crows overhead twisted as the trail we tred |
| Most failed or fled, ended up jailed or dead |
| But never me |
| Eyes in the back of my head for any enemy |
| Ready for them backstabbers |
| Suited and booted on this black Sabbath |
| Truly polluted by the pain I paint the blues on a blank canvas |
| We’re all judged by the same standards |
| Saints, gangsters, to base heads in St. Pancras |
| It’s plain madness |
| My brain strains to make sense of |
| We blaze ten spots |
| This games deadlocked |