Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Grave Undataking , by - Kool Keith. Song from the album Thee Undertakerz, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопRelease date: 31.12.2007
Record label: Indie Power
Song language: English
Grave Undataking |
| It’s like a million cars deep, in this cemetary |
| I’m dressed in black, high heels, black veil, and a strap |
| Homies sheddin tears about it, reminscin |
| Older yesteryears, how we kicked it there |
| It’s a great day for undataking |
| Jim, back the truck up |
| I’m backin it up a little further |
| Hurry up, back the truck up |
| Gotchu |
| A hundred percent of you think you’re popular |
| I haven’t watched cable and television, in 20 years |
| You catch the hook |
| I don’t even know how the average jackass with a jersey look |
| Check the format, Mr. and Mrs. Unknown |
| I’m like the Amish people |
| Candles, no phone, although jocked by many stars |
| Who copy me, still on my bone — been ridin limos |
| Watching crossing guards move you to the Immature zone |
| From top to middle, down to the bottom |
| You face the highway, lookin at Leatherface |
| Three miles away, you’ll be in wrong place |
| I will make the move with the truck |
| The Funeral Director, will come with his own |
| Black suit and that spector, to step in his ride |
| Will we see, when the cow walks at night midnight with the leather hide |
| I will walk and stand in the dark zone, with the light, from the lamp |
| This is no sleepaway camp |
| That’s right, I am, the Funeral Director |
| And we do not, run, a sleepaway camp here |
| We only, take |
| Manic depressive, mental patient |
| In a basement smokin wet in the morgue |
| With a swordfight, cat up, runnin meditatin |
| Without no ouiji board |
| My omnipotent potential crush skulls |
| Chewin through yo' favorite rapper’s nails |
| Walkin with body parts in L-A-X airport |
| With a briefcase kept confidential |
| A natural born menace runnin loose through yo' neighborhood residential |
| Urban suburban section a killin machine, with 187 credentials |
| My bladin through South Central, South Bronx, walkin through South Chicago |
| Ivan Durago, Red Dragon, Hannibal Canibal, chewin through human jawbones |
| Handle your mandible with a iron claw, black iron eagle with evil thoughts |
| I release human form, drink blood drops |
| Love to watch when a body drops, when the shotty pops, better drop |
| When I strike yo' turf, cause if you don’t run and hide, it’s suicide |
| I’ma stun yo' hide, and leave you — six feet underneath the earth |
| Serial killer like Ted Bundy, on the mic I’m Adolf Hitler |
| Far worse than Osama Bin Laden, plottin on hell |
| When I get there I’ma kill the devil first, then put his head up for sale |
| Put his head out for sale, put his head up for sale |
| Yes, we will, put his head up for sale |
| His heart, his liver |
| His whole, internal, organs |
| We don’t play here |
| We Undatake, here |
| So remember |
| It’s a Grave, Undataking |