Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Wishin' II, artist - PRhyme. Album song PRhyme, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 10.12.2015
Record label: PRhyme
Song language: English
Wishin' II |
Yo, the voice of the announcer signing off |
Salvador, a connoisseur, a hot monologue |
Rachmaninoff, livin' life not by the law |
And I’m a product of that Rakim — God, Allah |
Forensic files, leaving 'em disemboweled, '87 style |
They chance slimmer than reverend Al or Kevin Liles |
Some friends are vile, still be peddlin' vials |
Off of eleven mile, they wishin' you would |
You prolly better reconcile |
The dark side of to who they rising in prominence |
My crown’s taller than Suleiman of The Ottoman’s |
Wiser than Solomon, mobilizing the following |
They try and give me the Nobel prize for novelists |
Peace to cats that rock MAC knowledge knowledges |
Hood astrologists, illegal anesthesiologists, yo |
El elefante, Bella Fonte |
Keep a regimen ready to give 'em hell if PRhyme say |
Yo, post-traumatic stress, I wear it as a family crest |
I murder at its best, words that’ll manifest causing cardiac arrest |
Budapest to Marrakesh, my slang Bangladesh |
My gang’s Clarence X, I’m life after death, the last larynx |
Lettin' every other rapper know they better wear a vest |
I’m pulling in two hundred thousand for appearances |
I wrote a song about it, here it is, yo |
The creature feature search a preacher teacher torch |
Capture, rupture, rapture, reach her, the preacher |
He defeat ya, speak the ether, sneak then creep ya |
Say no peace to meet ya, can’t nobody get with me |
Strong suits from Italy, chill, humility what I’m all about, ability, yo |
I wish a nigga would bring the hostility though |
You know how them boys from Philly be |
I’m like cyanide, creeping through the air ducts |
And I got a foul mouth, tell 'em kids earmuffs |
When I was at school, I was who to steer clear of |
Smoking a reefer in the bathroom, sipping Smirnoff |
When it came time for the pictures in the yearbook |
I was up in Paris like an American werewolf |
Years later, yo I’m an American hero verse evil like |
Deerhoof, if I let the bear woof |
They don’t recognize me when I’m shopping up in Berdgdorf |
They just know I’m flier than the motherfucking airport |
Therefore they say I’m a sartorial gear whore, yeah |
Uh, Ascots on the tailor suits |
You artists throwing bands on the radio like they made you you |
I’m looking for artists on stage to throw tomatoes to |
The way I act you think I’m banned from radio, like Trae Tha Truth |
I don’t really care, nigga, I’m getting yen |
I’ve got a C-63, V-Twizzy Benz I’m sitting in |
I’on, I’on, I’on give a fuck, any DJ anywhere |
I’on, I’on give 'em as a triple dare, I’ll tie him to a swivel chair |
I’on give 'em spins, ha ha, I’on give 'em grins and count dividends |
Ask around by them D-Town niggas that’ll leave you with a concert |
Full of dead fans and bloody merch |
Smoking dope that Celie… That’s the color purp |
You might wanna study first |
Every verse lyrical but nutty first |
Every verb and every word is like a speeding bullet |
'Bout to chop your body in half while it’s on the way to heaven |
Like Kid Cudi shirt, shit could be a hit but it’s gotta be money first |
I rap with a sickness card, Iraq pistol pulling private, shh |
Chris, I think I got the Gully curse |
Underground, underrated, y’all keep digging for answers, like the route to |
cancer |
I keep turning Preemo beats into chemo treatments, I keep wiggin' like a oop to |
Andrew |
I’m clumsy when I shoot, oops, I bet your crew’ll scrambled |
I don’t write for limelight, I shine the rhyme light down then I’ll produce a |
scandal |
I’m what your baby moms would do for cameras |
I’m leaving everything from the marriage to her little cooch in shambles |
Your posse even get in my broad way your posse’ll perish |
Your posse’ll become the posse up there |
I’m outlining all of they bodies in chalk, setting fire to 'em |
To the chocolate on top like chocolate eclairs |
They outfit and jacket is bail staff |
While we in the air, it’s Yahtzee on Lears |
And when we land, we on yatchs saying grazie to the mail staff |
Muah, kiss my ass, y’all can go to hell fast |
I’m just ready for whatever hell brings (Focus, man) |
Getting closer to that real money like Gayle King (That's Oprah’s friend) |
I think of nightmares that’ll ruining your dreams |
And I just went shopping in China, yeah I flew with the team |
Fuck a translator, I speak fluent, cha-ching |
Y’all holding shit down with that selfie stick |
I’m fly in some shit out of Harvey Nichols and Selfridges |
Even when me and Shady was Abel and Caine |
We worked our magic separately like Angel and Blaine |
Came into this game with a navy like Baby and Wayne |
Now every pair of glasses I have has a crazy insane Jazze Pha gradient frame |
The least most amazing vehicle I have is a lease, though |
It’s a beast 4−80 and change |
Y’all tryna pick up Bieber and Drake fans |
Not me, but I’m in the streets though, like a Canadian crane |
To elaborate is to annihilate, please don’t make me explain |
Come get your bitch! |
Before I make her smile, ha |
'Fore I perform a bunch of acts on her like Saturday Night Live then take a bow |
Like Kenan Thompson, I don’t believe in nonsense |
I don’t got no felonies in my record, I just got a fleeing conscience |
I’m just out here spending money like I’m being sponsored |
I’m just on my Philly crime shit, my ice cold Jack Frost mind |
My black thoughts are my only real accomplice… |