Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Banished, artist - JJ DOOM. Date of issue: 19.08.2012
Song language: English
Banished |
| Villain got banished |
| Refused out the U.S., he ain’t even Spanish |
| Oaxacado, sock with the hole toe |
| Miss the mean streets of LA, a pot hole pro |
| The goal though in the nick of time |
| To kick a slicker rhyme, do your face like Nickey the Line |
| No, not deported |
| Be a little minute before things get sorted |
| Known to get money, never got caught kid |
| Escape with a soft skid, short bid |
| Knock on wood, dope on plastic |
| Rocks so hood, hope on spastic |
| Putting on the ritz |
| Put your bullshit facial recognition on fritz |
| I’m afraid you’re sadly mistaken |
| Paid to spit it like a bad piece of bacon |
| Take the bread |
| Even if you gotta lay down on the ground and fake dead |
| Grab that, way out the habitat |
| Where the rabbits is at, far from the lab rats |
| Man’s right to know |
| Contemplate that as these hands write to flow |
| It ain’t done yet |
| He let you know some of the results come sunset |
| Till then pack your bowl |
| Jack into your crack ho with black soul coal |
| Tune the diamond |
| Just so you know it ain’t some buffoon rhymin' |
| Hey, watch your tonsils |
| End up in the hospital, not responsible |
| Bust that gizzard |
| Then start to think how it ain’t worth the risk—is it? |
| Third degree black belt flow |
| Whip his monkey ass till the track felt slow |
| Melt snow, now that’s gold |
| Blow on 'em, make fronts, wow that’s cold |
| Stole’ded 'em, throws them dice |
| Cool 'em down, set to mo' flow with ice |
| Like liquid nitrogen ain’t no wins |
| Macro- to micro-thin, it’s your skin |
| Villain strikes again |
| Equivalent a hundred thousand milligram Vicodin |
| Not for nuttin', your guess is worth more |
| Barefoot doin' the James on a dirt floor |
| Dirt poor |
| Like, «Don't get your shirt tore, boy» |
| Crown of thorns, his chain made of razorblades |
| Gown adorned, homemade blazer suede |
| Bout to retire |
| Set up somewhere in the sun and breathe fire |
| That include tipsy getting |
| We get it in like your Big Fat Gypsy Wedding |
| No more thugging |
| And don’t think you won’t get slapped kid, you’re bugging |
| It’s all love, rhyme with more dough |
| Remind me of the fine-wine, time-raw flow |
| It’s like a worn-in suit |
| On his shoot, morning commute, torn boot |
| What a gnarly scene |
| Publicity stunt, get paid on some Charlie Sheen |
| Sell Monsanto a barley bean |
| And have a meeting-up with multiple-party machine |
| Watch DOOM’s laser |
| Graze you more worse than an Occam’s razor |
| Not to interrupt |
| But anybody else notice time speeding up? |
| Make your local police worried monthly |
| And won’t be nowhere nears your country |
| Grown and got no time for 'em |
| Lap songs, belly tunes, nylons or iPhone |
| Bitches do a knock-knee, slack jaw |
| Don’t speak Afrikaans, cockney, or patois |
| Alhamdulillah, last off the corner |
| Only thing he miss is blastin' off a warner |
| Supervillain, smooth sicko |
| Why oh why did I leave that Veuve Clicquot? |
| That’s not up for debate |
| Be straighter than straight off a big gulp of V8 |
| If she wasn’t so bent |
| She’d know how the camel got his nose in the tent |
| Please, enough’s enough |
| Don’t get snuffed with the key to the cuffs |
| G’s on your bluffs |
| Keys to the cuffs |
| Please, enough’s enough! |