Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song There It Is, artist - Quakers. Album song Quakers, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 26.03.2012
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Stones Throw
Song language: English
There It Is |
Let’s start it off like uno, dos, I leave no trace |
On some Chris Walken in the studio, explore the space |
Like the keys is my pillow, my blanket’s the bass |
Horn’s the comforter, drums and percussion the frame |
Guitar’s the sheets where I lay, my words match |
That’s how I interior decorate, got IKEA in my crate |
Made my bed, I sleep in it, but the rest of the house |
Is unfinished, paint peeling is my blemish, I’m living I’m certain |
When I’m working wish life had a cliffnotes version |
Got jobs one through twenty, guess what, they all urgent |
My own everyday for a few years determined |
My band play an empty show, and ain’t nothing working |
Had to freestyle outside the club just to get a crowd |
Lost my voice mid-set, still got homework at the house |
Recording session later that night, in class I pass out |
And quitting ran through my head, but then hip-hop said |
«Don't go, don’t go» |
Y’all ready for it? |
Yeah |
I bet you’ll have fun |
I got down into it |
There is it, there it is |
Damn right |
This game enforce all, sometimes you can hit the clutch and still stall |
Some would crawl hands-and-knees, to travel to Belize, puff exotic trees |
Take a million pictures, cheese |
Sign autographs after rap, then after that a million daps |
Money stacks, honeys wanting sex, kids coming back |
Somehow it cracks |
I guess they call that point in time a crossroads |
I follow the same path my heart goes |
Leading the leaders to lead elitists, over the ledge |
Since a fetus, I’ve been sick with ideas in my head |
Definition of The Walking Dead |
Messing with those Quakers, getting my bread |
I chose bitten instead, I rose, living ahead |
But I’m still running outta time, funny ain’t it? |
Then my life I painted, ugly of distorted portions |
But she beautiful to me |
Imperfection’s perfect, something I can work with |
Champ’s on that grind, killing more tread than your city’s curb did |