| Hahahahahaha
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| Who I Be
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| Prod Morriarchi
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| First of all
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| Let’s talk about you ill fakers
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| How most of you afford to drink your counterfeit and papers
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| Left up to me
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| Well, I’d deny the whole lot of you
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| Horrible
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| Hope the whole roof falls on top of you
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| I keep it real like money, g and only fade a few
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| Like jim jones syndrome
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| Cult gang posse crew
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| Brainwave, I pave that
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| Buggin' in The basement
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| Fingers on the button
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| And ---- blood on the apron
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| Stinkin' up that mary jane
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| the danker grade
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| Iron lung trainin'
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| Smokin' til I’m old and grey
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| Now I gotsta talk a phrase
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| Now here’s a doper phrase
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| A fuckin' toke a day will help you keep your doc away
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| I like my waters muddy
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| And my pockets phat
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| You dropped your I want her back
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| You don’t deserve to poke it
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| So hand it over, brag
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| I bring the storm
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| Get you open with the sanga knife
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| Yellow tape, half lines
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| Box cutter, deep hits
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| Chalk on the pavement
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| The body’s on my Craigs
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| Love the sound of sirens
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| Got it on the replay
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| High in the mornin', cold saggin in the eveniiiin'!
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| Sweg, blood and coffee on me sheep skin coat
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| Reaching deep into me pocket for a smoke
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| Probably the goat but I’d never gloat
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| I walk up to the edge and float
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| To the other side, in a single humble stride
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| Running high, before I trip and crush your pride
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| Then leave for lunch and cut the pie five ways
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| So its easier for me to munch (mmmm)
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| Outside the chippy, tipsy sipping a whisky
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| Clicking me fingers at a kid for a ciggy
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| Sitting pretty in the ugly tree
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| Don’t even look at me me when you look at me, just agree
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| Eyes on the floor while I dribble on
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| In your face with more faces than a quintesson
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| Asking you rhetorical questions like «Wheres your liquor gone?»
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| And what bottle I’m drinking from
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| Starving me Digimon, I’m something like a Sicilian don
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| At the gates of heaven giving God shit on the Intercom
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| Chances stuck between slim and none
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| I meditate like «Get money, Fuck bitches Om»
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| I used to wanna be a star, I’d love the money love the fame
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| Yeah, that’d be out this world but now all I want is space
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| Get the fuck up out my face
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| I don’t got no true hope
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| Spray painting overrated on Tupacs tombstone
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| I carry the pistol mate, it’s the american way
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| It’ll make your character change like it did with Harriet Winslow
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| Speaking of Family Matters, no it don’t so sit calm
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| Remove your clothes, do it slow and take this fucking dick Mom
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| Seal my blunts with holy water
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| Kill a priest and feel a rush
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| I’m bumping Killah Priest
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| Take whatever a pills I want
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| Fuck these kiddie rappers thinking that they something sick
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| I’m only over your head, cus I’m tired of you sucking dick
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| Fucking pricks, «» New breed
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| I’m from the Wu era too Pharoah for you geeks
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| Now it’s like a job to me, I’m out here making mad bank
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| So read it and weep like the diary of Anne Frank
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| DAMN STRAIGHT |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Stanley's Friends , by - Lee Scott. Song from the album CactusOwlMoonGoat, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп