Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Child's Play, artist - Lucky Boys Confusion. Album song Throwing The Game, in the genre Поп
Date of issue: 07.05.2001
Record label: Elektra
Song language: English
Child's Play |
I’m in the wrong fucking place, at the wrong fucking time |
Don’t worry motherfucker cause I’ll still get mine |
I know the magnitude of the right attitude |
Remember one day you’ll be showing me gratitude |
Inevitably you will agree, your fragile ego I’m denting |
Unnecessary jealousy, why are you resenting |
Lucky Boys Confusion ripping leaves off clovers |
Adam I’m about to send the limelight over, kid |
Well, hello my my how the tables have turned |
You got your new style and the tricks that you learned |
From me, go let go of the ghetto phase |
It’s like everybody’s trying to earn a buck these days |
Ripping off my kids, with your ziplock bags |
You think you’re rolling now, you need to step the fuck back |
We’ll take care of Arizona, handle the schwag |
Shorty got a brand new bag |
When say opportunity knock on me door |
Such a shame it’s not the music, it’s how much they score in their pocket |
Now, the band plays I see the dollar sign in your eyes |
But guess what Mr. Parasite we can see through all of your lies |
I’m rocking mic stands daily, I’m merely |
Two blocks away from the venue |
It’s not as if you can hear me, clearly |
Bringing up on the styles which were ours, nearly |
With help from the stars of the past |
Enhanced with your modern day melodies |
Beats that kick your ass and you agree |
I’m not up here to rock the room alone |
Stubhystyle pick up the microphone |
I’m back by popular demand, some people don’t understand |
Why I’m laughing fucking up all the shit you planned |
Cause your motives weren’t true and either were you |
Trying to figure out how I do the things I do |
A word of advice if you already haven’t |
Go out, step out, special order some talent |
Don’t say I’m not a musician cause I can hold my own |
And bitch I play the microphone |
Ooooh, mama did you hear they want make me superstar |
Ooooh, mama did you hear they’re gonna make me a star |
You seemed startled by the way that I approach the mic |
But isn’t my tongue spitting out all the things you like |
Mixing flavors together like Neapolitan, tight |
Clam baking the limousine |
He sprinkles on his stardust before he hits the street |
A victim of his ego, pop rock society |
His gear is nice and trendy; |
you got your baggy jeans |
He’s got a few piercings but nothing to extreme |
Radio friendly writings is the highway to money |
Maybe we’ll be stars if we give them what they need |
I get twelve percent off the music I make |
And the image that they’re selling you is fake |