Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Fire, artist - Method Man. Album song Bring Back God II, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 04.02.2018
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Babygrande
Song language: English
Fire |
| I whip cause I sprung shit, bang, here’s a bung hit |
| Cats split your tongue, shit, bitch got cum sick |
| She can keep the knee pads, sign for the helmet |
| Man vibrations, coming off the pelvis |
| Thugs and prescription drugs, yo, where’s Elvis? |
| Pull off the panties, she was smelling like a shellfish |
| Gung when we rung shit, that run, here we come, spit |
| Eyes on the gunship, heh, here’s your Blistex |
| Here’s a spliff twist, hanging out the window like a rhyme smith |
| Now you taking flicks of my footprint |
| Sunshine and dough ride just like a biscuit |
| Live wire, no installation is required |
| One match, I set the world on fire |
| Live wires, no installation is required |
| One match, I set the world is fire |
| The God said to put the fire on it |
| The God said to put the fire on it |
| One match, we set the world on fire |
| One match, we set the world on fire |
| It’s the art of war combat, every move is high tech |
| Human Terminator nigga, plug me into SkyNet |
| Red bone, hot head, burnt down my projects |
| I turn sound into killing flying objects |
| Blood off contracts, kill ‘em on contact |
| Yeah, I got bread, dead? |
| Nope, not yet |
| Damn, you ain’t pop yet, haters wanna block that |
| Snatch mics, hunchback, talk smack, I punch back |
| Flew off the launchpad, right through your insides |
| Great minds combine, try to study my enzymes |
| Skating on the thin line, fighting for the airtime |
| Push back your hairline, with shots of tequila lime |
| Stay on my global grind, talk with a sober mind |
| Putting in more overtime, till I reach a billion |
| In the condominium, skinny tall Brazilian |
| With so many tats, she looking reptilian |
| My hand hot, killer, curry in the pot, killer |
| Look how these killers thinking they are and they not, killers |
| I get the drop, killer, all the killings stop, killer |
| My heavy hitters flex on everyone you got with ya |
| This track’s not filler, talk with my hands, I’m tryna feel ya |
| It might be the fact that we not familiar |
| Or, not La Familia, a monkey with bars |
| You not gorilla, Zilla, calling you Don, my pen has gotten iller |
| Yeah, you know who we are, you know the slums |
| Where the women keep the wook in they bra, that’s where I’m from |
| Cops catch you with the rook in the car, this where you run |
| You can die here, son, and the ambulance never come, ugh |
| Ain’t no limit till I spit it, my Yankee fitted |
| Shout out to critics that know I’m wicked for killing minute |
| Shout out to rappers that ain’t committed, but think they get it |
| Hold up, now wait a minute, let me put some hating in it |