Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Borsalino , by - MZ Boom Bap. Release date: 04.12.2017
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Borsalino |
| Its high, predicamental |
| Feeling strong when the sky getting torn up |
| This mind is richer than pride |
| If I die |
| Know I was young soldier |
| Its high predicamental |
| Feeling strong when the sky getting torn up |
| It shines when midnight is time |
| If I die then the second eye |
| Of moon shall watch over me |
| Bust it |
| Crush it, cuss it dust it |
| Yo style is rubbish |
| Brother, you gon' need to watch |
| What this child gon publish |
| Ruggish, hunnid instrumentals Im budging |
| Trusting nobody on sublets |
| Who faking jaxx on a budget |
| I stalk the public |
| On my stubbornness ish |
| Who got the rock |
| Who staying humble, in this shit |
| Most niggas go with the flick |
| Slitting they wrist when they flip |
| Fake niggas holla |
| On zones, no shit |
| On flip phones, they trynna get into ya home |
| I dug my bone deep beneath |
| Of the feet you harbor |
| Searching for my soul |
| I’ms till breathing right thru this armor |
| My father I keep on going harder |
| A king who farmer |
| Not an informer but former |
| Performer who not from california |
| Swiss blooded |
| Inhaling right off a doobie |
| Yet I get the looks |
| Cause the African blood run thru me |
| My heart pump a flu me numb |
| Heating up like aluminum |
| Who crew you run? |
| Confidants mixing booze |
| With a shooter gun |
| Its high, predicamental |
| Feeling strong when the sky getting torn up |
| This mind is richer than pride |
| If I die |
| Know I was young soldier |
| Its high predicamental |
| Feeling strong when the sky getting torn up |
| It shines when midnight is time |
| If I die then the second eye |
| Of moon shall watch over me |
| I rock the treble and bass |
| Yo check the middle function |
| Gusting the dust off |
| With filthy face on the funk when |
| We stomping |
| When the spell hits |
| I’m speaking fists |
| My style flips, forever farewell |
| When setting dibs |
| It getting mixed in the circle |
| We form a whole new triangle |
| My confidants and I know to handle |
| We making moves, ready |
| Up in casinos |
| Wearing fancy yellow chinos |
| Rock a fly fedora by Borsalino |
| Drinking a cappuccino |
| My style be lethal |
| Most niggas try to repeat |
| But what comes around |
| Goes around |
| So keep ya old recepits |
| The spitter of hordes of flames |
| Watch me burn em in flames |
| If living in hideous |
| And in irreversible choices I’d go insane |
| They getting slain |
| When fucking it up on aim |
| You get it right or get it wrong |
| My nigga that is the game |
| So gimme the mic |
| And lemme give you the sword |
| Sticking it into your cords |
| Crushing heaviest of matter |
| With metaphors |
| Of course |
| It’s time |
| Its high, predicamental |
| Feeling strong when the sky getting torn up |
| This mind is richer than pride |
| If I die |
| Know I was young soldier |
| Its high predicamental |
| Feeling strong when the sky getting torn up |
| It shines when midnight is time |
| If I die then the second eye |
| Of moon shall watch over me |