| Lord, lord, lord
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| Well well well well well.
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| Help me cleanse my sins
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| Help me lift this spell
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| We fight demons from our past only to face new monsters
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| I ask, are we comatose or unconscious?
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| My top spin’s perpetual, make the connection
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| You sleep cause reality bites; |
| inception
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| Protection orders for my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
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| Molested Mexican daughters, stretch across the border
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| The streets paved in gold often fade
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| When the paint they use to pave the streets is henna
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| And greener is the grass on the other side
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| Except for when that other side is geno
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| Or sewer (sui-cide), you smile while you sippin' a cup of Kahlua
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| That makes me wanna mainline a fucking fifth of Dewars
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| I’m trying to utilize my time to shine here
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| I realize we only have limited time here
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| Dudes on my line try’na sell me a timeshare
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| That’ll be me with a nine losin' my mind in Time Square
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| Like, «Is this how you wanna treat me?
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| You know what this business was before you hired me
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| A piece of shit!
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| Everybody on the floor right now!
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| Everybody get the fuck down!»
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| La-la-la-last ye-ye-year they hired me
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| And this-s-s-s we-we-we-we-week the-the-they fired me
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| And I g-g-g-got all these b-b-b-b-bills to pay
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| And what the f-f-f-f-fu-f-f-fuck am I supposed to say
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| T-t-t-t-to my wife she’s p-p-p-p-pregnant
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| And if the kid does not go to college his life’s irrelevant
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| And my-my-my melanin-n-n-n makes me a felon
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| And-nd I just wanna take this fuckin' c-c-crack and sell it
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| To the planet;
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| Panic, I’m a manic depressive mechanic that manages to frantically do damage
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| To his brain with Xanax, and it’s, like the word «anxiety» is branded panoramic
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| To the back of my eyelids in a variety of fonts
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| Ariel, Bold, Gothic
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| Lost it in Time Square and going home is not an option
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| Is this illusion optic?
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| Perhaps it’s just a chemical reaction with my Zoloft and acidophilus
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| The section of my brain that forms sentences isn’t operative
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| Danger! |
| Danger! |
| Danger, Will Robinson
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| A bizarre ride, Pharcyde, Fatlip, Collagen
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| My tolerance is volatile and it feels like I’m losing oxygen! |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Time2, artist - Pharoahe Monch. Album song PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп