| «Glenwood mother-fuckin'Projects, that was the fuckin’place man. |
| Fuckin'
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| crack smoking all night. |
| Cookin’it up, sellin’C4, weapons, blowguns, every
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| mother-fuckin'thing — what a fuckin’rush. |
| We were cookin’the shit up, an'
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| I smoked it up an’the Jamaicans man, they came back, fuckin’torched the
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| place, with me mother-fuckin'in it! |
| I couldn’t get out the fuckin
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| apartment, they locked me in, I had to go out the fuckin window, it was
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| fuckin’dynamite!»
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| Ill Bill lost sanity — lost humanity
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| Lost in a maze of purple haze, cannabis sativa — spit ether — violently
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| Very vociferous? |
| victorious — hotter than a crematorium — I’ll kill all of you
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| Kill you? |
| mother-fuck you — Drop dead faggit it’s the dragon
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| .44 Magnum — splatter you in front of your family
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| My fire arms, never be tired — up in the air
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| Throw a bullet up in each eye? |
| an’one in ya ear
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| I speak heroin, breathe weed, sniff cocaine
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| Tweaked levels when I peeped Courtney kill Cobain
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| We got the whole world scratching they heads
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| Life is like a high-jacked airliner, but we managed to win
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| Back to the crib, breakin up the cats in the brig
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| Havin a bitch — flashin the tits — While you crashing the whip
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| Laughin at hoes, taking fakerss to amateur flicks
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| While the Ill Bill albums kidnapping your kids
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| I put the D into Drugs an’the G into Guns
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| I put the D into Dubs an’the T into Thugs
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| I put the C into 'Caine an’the P into Pain
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| The G into Game, Pop-Pop? |
| three in ya brain
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| I get impatient like a long bid — get so vexed I hit the wrong kid
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| Shit gets awkward, like I’m on a drug an’I can’t get off it Blank out? |
| rip a shank out
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| Treat you like Vietcong — hit you like the weed in a bong
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| Your pussy like a G-string or thong
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| You think I’m sick? |
| Fucked up? |
| Oh am I?
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| You think you can’t die?
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| Don’t think your crazy cuz a years passed by Beat you down with my fuckin’hands tied
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| Now change your attitude, before you get cracked from different latitudes
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| By kids that are mad at you? |
| they expect gratitude
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| I’ll strike a foe — even if you don’t know me you better act like you know
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| Especially if you’re soft? |
| I’ve earned my stripes like Schwarzkopf
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| The gun I bust off will tear through your clothes like a moth
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| Your sloppy, cuz you start beef, and cop please, but not me?
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| I put the D into Drugs an’the G into Guns
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| I put the D into Dubs an’the T into Thugs
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| I put the C into 'Caine an’the P into Pain
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| The G into Game, Pop-Pop? |
| three in ya brain
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| I rock sickening raps like Woody Allen flares beach hats
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| A John Hinckley? |
| run up on politicians with ski caps
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| Laser weapons? |
| I bleed coke, happiness is like a warm gun
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| Run in ya crib slitting ya G’s throat
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| Cruise the block, whippin’uzi’s an’pop
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| Loosin the cops, whether new lots or zooming through Watts
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| The newest space suite, love rocking titties like grapefruits
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| Phase two — Rasta-ice inverted «Hey-Zeus"(Jesus)
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| I’m up in fat burger? |
| bag some codeine
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| So clean, pinstripe gat runners are Old G’s
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| serving the fiends crack, dope and weed
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| Glenwood projects — we living the American dream
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| Screaming «hey pelican»? |
| trains of coke on my cock
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| Handle bars like «Vivica»? |
| with nipples and crotch
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| We toured — drive-bys on the mongoose with glocks
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| This ain’t rhetorical, the story gets worse? |
| you get shot
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| I put the D into Drugs an’the G into Guns
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| I put the D into Dubs an’the T into Thugs
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| I put the C into 'Caine an’the P into Pain
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| The G into Game, Pop-Pop? |
| three in ya brain |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Glenwood Projects, artist - Necro. Album song What's Wrong?, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп