Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Head Punches , by - K Rino. Song from the album Makin’ Enemies, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хопRelease date: 16.09.2015
Record label: SoSouth
Song language: English
Head Punches |
| We gonna call this one Head Punches |
| But I guess at the end of the day it could pass for a Flow Session |
| Let’s go |
| I turbo boost words that shoot, ripping your shirt loose |
| Your baby mama’s bare feet look like work boots |
| The fire throat, not a guy that you should try and coach |
| My quotes are more terrifying than a flying roach |
| One punch gave that head about fifty knots |
| My shine is hard to block like Nowitzki’s shot |
| If you was smart, you’d get out this place |
| Cause it’s about to get ugly like Donatella Versace’s face |
| They say that you one of the hardest but I beg to differ |
| I ain’t impressed, you more trifling than a pregnant stripper |
| If K-Rino respond to garbage, I’ll mow your lawn |
| You so boring you could make a dude in a coma yawn |
| It’s been a while since I let my pen, break a folder |
| But like a dude who lost a hundred pounds, the wait is over |
| You’re still young but you’re flow older than Abe Vigoda |
| Smack you dead in the face with a case of soda |
| Man, it’s ridiculous to ask you to come and rap |
| It’s like the ventriloquist sitting on the dummies lap |
| Your skill will never come close to this |
| Plus my catalogue’s longer than a section 8 grocery list |
| I’ma tryna teach you the game, hoping that you learn |
| You want my crown, let’s go a round like two u-turns |
| You’re feet ain’t clean enough to run on my turf |
| You’re house so filthy you could sweep the rug up under the dirt |
| It’s time to mash so I’m attacking your pad, bro |
| My lines: so over your head like a bad 'fro |
| You wanna match, we can each drop 30 racks |
| And I’ma take you to the cleaners like some dirty slacks |
| I’m despised by these dishonourable guys |
| Plus I’m dangerous like raggedy-assed carnival rides |
| Everywhere I go, people wanna walk with me and trail a pro |
| But you’re respect is so low that your yes-man even tell you no |
| I’ll catch you, it don’t matter where the Hell you go |
| It’s funny cause these clowns is watered down and still fail to grow |
| See last year you was rocking the masses |
| Now you in HGB parking lot rounding up baskets |
| Meanwhile I’m lighting flames, your talent ain’t quite the same |
| Your rap skills fell off worse than Tiger’s game |
| Remain cool as I run a sharp pain through ya |
| I got so much game I’ll sell your own brain to ya |
| I ain’t forgot what you said, you gon' pay for your hatred |
| I’ll take the air out of your chest like I play for the Patriots |
| I turn the heat high as it go, somewhere to burn worse |
| And put and L on you on you every day like Lavern shirts |
| I say a lot about myself but I can’t say enough |
| Cause I’m so real they give me change before I pay for stuff |
| You on the internet, fronting and dissing like Man |
| But you just faking, that ain’t you, you catch fictional fans |
| When I’m really fiending I open up a stranger’s chest |
| I’ll catch an airplane from South Park to Bangladesh |
| I pop domes for running your mouth, homes |
| And your son keep asking your wife how come you got a blouse on |
| I’m hanging every mic holder, 23 and older |
| I can’t get high cause I’m addicted to being sober |
| Doing shows with K-Rino, you need rougher flows |
| Cause I’ma shut the building down like it ain’t up to code |
| I stay snapping cause I know that keeps my fans happy |
| I’ll sell African medallions at a Klan rally |
| All I see is a bunch of wannabe hot coons |
| Bouncing on the stage in Peter Pan costumes |
| I got a pack of mics for rappers who ain’t acting right |
| And after I beat you to death I might just beat you back to life |
| I never lose my motivation out on these streets |
| I’m still hungry like 10 obese people splitting a three-piece |
| After I spit this, I’ll have to murder the eyewitness |
| Some of the things I did ain’t even none of my business |
| I’m in the rafters with hundred, fifty and twenty stackers |
| I don’t take shit from no one like a friendly jacker |
| Your punk card I’ll pull yours like a rip chord |
| While you roaching, I’m holding paper like a clipboard |
| You know I go hard in the paint till the track dies |
| So now you fronting like you got help on the back side |
| You run up on me then it’s slumber time |
| You could never come behind K-Rino like 8 to the number 9 |
| Like 8 to the number 9, yeah |
| Sniper, Lil C, K-Rino |
| We Makin' Enemies everywhere we go |
| I ran out of flow |