Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Typhoon Rap, artist - Meyhem Lauren. Date of issue: 17.03.2014
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Typhoon Rap |
| Yo, I represent change like the forty-fourth president |
| Son, I get fresher than most, that shit’s evident |
| Prevalent, powerful, pop on punk pussies |
| I’m outside ready for war with no rookies |
| Deadly apparel, cognac by the barrel |
| Soar high like a sparrow, on point like an arrow |
| Break bones to the marrow, mind state beyond narrow |
| Talladega Nights, go hard like Will Ferrell |
| A hot boy with cheese like a slice from Sbarro |
| If the rap game was Egypt you could call me a pharaoh |
| Rocking Timb chukkas |
| Living like some ice road truckers |
| Fuck the pigs cause I know them suckers wanna bucka-buck us |
| Pocket full of Maytag blue but it’s green |
| If there’s an ugly bitch, somebody better take it for the team |
| That’s how we do, them outdoors boys mad noise |
| Fall back, cause the 44 long shit destroys |
| The beard exquisite, cooker on the quadricep |
| 5'7″, 280, murder bars for rep |
| I’m Lo rockin', seat at the Kentucky Derby |
| It’s either that, Nasty Nate, Knickerbocker jersey |
| Marty Puccio cool it with bully shit |
| This travel bag got the semi with the fully shift |
| I’m fully equipped to leave you in a pool of your shit |
| And leave your shorty droolin' on dick |
| Prosciutto slice is thinner than a model bitch |
| Fresh grapes that were pressed into a bottle bitch |
| My bottom bitch, servin' me with olives, bitch |
| Shorty graduated college, bitch, switch |
| Super suburb, Martha Stewart, good with the herbs |
| I’m Bobby Flay, cookin' the birds |
| Yo, I’m Martin Yan, what you talkin 'bout a knife |
| Still we ate the chicken, We talkin' 'bout your wife |
| Fuck the fake shit, we rock Champion hoods |
| And run up in spots, making them pop, who got the goods |
| Trying to be the next mogul, young gassed, sipping on Mobil |
| Extra vocal? |
| Not me, I’m anti-social |
| Beyond local, fuck hopeful, I make it happen |
| Heavy strapping, deadly beaming, steady scheming |
| Any demons up in my path will get banished |
| My rhymes make niggas rebuild, like water damage |
| El Pozolero, cocinero, it’s the wild guero |
| The new Lebron up on my feet |
| Step on the Beamer pedal |
| We heaving rebels with the freeze and pebbles |
| Potent shit like the harvest of marijuana |
| Once the season settles |
| Twenty five, but that shit I spit is timeless |
| Swimming with piranhas, throw the penis in vaginas |
| Your highness, seen with a stunning queen |
| Diamonds like a French bread |
| A hundred geese, we sipping Burgundys in southern Greece |