Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song P&P 1.5, artist - Kendrick Lamar. Date of issue: 11.07.2011
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
P&P 1.5 |
| Kill him where he stand or stand over him shake his hand |
| Then jump back in that mini van, double back to his block |
| And blam I ain’t backing down for nothing |
| I’m a back em down like Shaq with this black 2−2-3 in my hand |
| Better pray that this chopper jam, like a radio single, man |
| Police radio signals sayin' that a 187 land on your corner, |
| Coroners comfort your mama, mama he’s dead, |
| The next morning high toasted up with my homies |
| We drink and smoke marijuana, want us to change our ways? |
| Uh-huh |
| You see this game we play come from uncles that raised me in Compton |
| Ask me what I have accomplished |
| I don’t know I don’t have conscience |
| I just load up and start dumpin' on enemies I’m head hunting |
| No sympathy, ain’t no love when you in these streets just get something |
| Protect ya neck cause they comin' for set respects split your onion |
| Then chop your deck your head tumblin' like gymnastics |
| Cause ignorance is bliss |
| This the hardest shit you’ve heard from LA this far |
| And I’m this far, from a discharge but never will I dish off |
| We all tryna ball and when I got the rock I’ll dish off |
| Until the day I pistol whip you posers till ya’ll pissed off |
| Then peel off, in a hooptie |
| Come back and make these niggas wanna shoot me |
| And they bitches wanna salute me or seduce me |
| Indubitably I’m too street |
| Indubitably I’m a do me |
| Better than your bitch would |
| But you niggas too weak, but just give me 2 weeks |
| And I’m good |
| I’ll make an album that’ll put a smile on Malcolm |
| Make Martin Luther tell God I’m the future for Heaven’s talent |
| No tarot card reading I’m foreseeing you niggas vanish |
| Not only from the rap game, I’m including the planet |
| Cats so watered down clowns can sink Titanic |
| Tie titanium around their neck and watch em panic |
| Give me respect, dammit, or get damaged |
| Die young, corpse identified by your parents |
| Apparently you a parrot |
| Mocking me and my blueprint |
| But I won’t share it just make you cop it then call you a sheriff |
| Stop it, I’m hearin' the comments |
| The critics are calling me conscious |
| But truthfully, every shooter be callin' me Compton |
| So truthfully, only calling me Kweli and Common? |
| Proves, that ignorance is bliss |
| And this still the hardest shit you’ve heard from LA this far |
| And I’m this far, from a discharge but never will I dish off |
| This my world, I grab the universe then play kickball |
| And they wonder why these California earthquakes hit so hard |
| I’m so-Cal, you so called |
| Rappers need to go call |
| Ghostbusters to shoot busters I’m Casper when I go off |
| I show up, to show out to show off |
| You a hundred percent behind me |
| And if you hard then wreck your car and walk up to my crime scene |
| I remember being 17 wishing someone would sign me |
| Now the only way these labels get me back is when they rewind me |
| Backin' down boggins |
| Backin' down bitches |
| We gon' flip her once she off that blue dolphin |
| You gon' tip her |
| Cause ignorance is bliss |
| And Willy B I’m a fool on yo beats, I bleed out the speaker |
| As the speaker that spoke when they done speak |