Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Fright Night , by - Kool Keith. Release date: 22.11.2010
Song language: English
Fright Night |
| I can’t hear nuttin though |
| Alright, where you want me to start at? |
| Aiyyo you can kill the music then |
| Yo, check one two, check one two in the place to be |
| From the bottom to the T-O-P |
| That’s right, Flavor Flav, Public Enemy |
| From Bronx to L.A., we don’t fail |
| Kickin right here for 7th Veil |
| My man Kool Keith, H-Bomb, no jive |
| Yo, H-Bomb, hit 'em in the head son |
| No blazes, tennis shoes and denim |
| Pimp I got the gators, leathers I kill 'em |
| Your bullshit events, don’t play right |
| No tribute awards for Mr. Barry White |
| It’s Guantanamo Bay, industry’s gay |
| Hard to get rich, I don’t swing that way |
| That switch to funny make record in Kingston |
| Jesus is black, tell Mel Gibson |
| Who wears a skirt, Sting and Dave Navarro |
| My strap, my money, don’t lend, don’t borrow |
| The Sunset Strip is Gaza Strip |
| Your clothin line is shit, H is fuckin sick! |
| The rap game industry too quiet |
| Hehehehehe hah hah Atkins Diet |
| No backpackers pro-athlete actors |
| I rep for pimps, pushers, jackers |
| The P on the fitted I’m all for pimps |
| I throw ropes down for my niggas in the clink (yeahhhh boy!) |
| First and foremost, the industry don’t want it |
| Fuck it, I take what I want and flaunt it |
| I’m not vexed, they spend for sex |
| Who’s next after Michael, fuck Funkmaster Flex |
| Yeahhhh boyee, kickin it for 7th Veil |
| That’s right, H-Bomb (fuck the industry, fuck it) |
| Kool Keith (fuck the industry nigga fuck it) |
| Hit 'em G |
| No game here, I shit on you ill son |
| Fuck Hollywood’s best guest list |
| Maximum dead-ass parties with flat-ass Paris Hilton |
| My shit shine bright with Von Dutch wipe |
| Jockin my gators, bitches with fake titties act like |
| They don’t suck dick, can you see me under the standard light |
| Fuck the red carpet, I’m in here with standard hype |
| You just at the crib on Sycamore |
| Your blonde cocker spaniel, my rings shine in your face |
| Youse a asswipe, you basketball player nut and scrotum jocker |
| You the givin ass type, with the Minnesota Timberwolves |
| Garnett’s clockin your ass pipe |
| Ugly monster-face bitch, you think you dressed tight |
| Evil bastard, you make your grandmother upset |
| Don’t flush the toilet motherfucker, you tryin to start a fight |
| Release the shit off my chest, get rid of the gripe |
| I shit inside your grey and white Nikes |
| Exercise your fat stomachs, no hamburgers at Chevies |
| You ride them fuckin bikes |
| Corny-ass 42 year old player’s club bitch |
| The funky face motherfuckin Wanda Sykes |
| That baldheaded motherfucker just put a weave in, on UPN |
| Whack-ass tattoos above your titties |
| Your hard faced bitch, you’ll see me again |
| Like Faith Evans is the only one that sniffs |
| All you cocaine motherfuckers in the hills |
| Even Vivica Fox is a ugly bitch, chasin Curtis for his chips |
| Engineer, just put me in that mix |