Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Box of Wheaties, artist - Quelle Chris. Album song Guns, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 28.03.2019
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Mello
Song language: English
Box of Wheaties |
Right, some kinda groove here |
It’s a little bit groovy down here |
Bah, bam, boom, bam |
My mother, God, I hate my mother |
Pearls like fuckin' dinner plates, you know what i’m sayin? |
I mean, they’re so refractive |
My uncle, he had an IROC in '86, and before that |
That’s right, he had the mark VIII with the whitewalls there |
And I remember he had, uh, the inside was plush |
Everybody else told him to get leather |
He said, «Nah, you know, my bad back» |
I wanna be riding around in a plush velour suit |
Plush velvet, I’m talkin' in the color of gunmetal grey, right? |
Now you’re talkin' velour on velour |
Hey yo, yo |
I’m ballin, y’all should put a nigga on a box of Wheaties |
I’m skatin', when I dip, just put me on a box of Wheaties |
I flip it for the gold, gone, put me on a box of Wheaties |
I hold up weight, these haters need me on a box of Wheaties |
I kick it, they should stick a nigga on a box of Wheaties |
I run it 0−100, put me on a box of Wheaties |
I par up bar for bar, pa, put me on a box of Wheaties |
I K.O. |
every day yo, put him on a box of Wheaties |
I been on splash for eight and a half, feels Fellini |
Back to back, I have no time for dancing off the TD |
Keep my people with me like Kirk and GP |
They can’t see me, say he hard to read like graffiti |
Pen, gym, bar, work, get ya numbers up |
Rake up in fall, no chill in winter, lit the summer up |
Oh you know nan' y’all best start acting like you owe me something |
My brothers don’t sleep and my sisters roll Dahomey 'cause |
This shit right here, this my year |
Stepping out feeling like the shit, my dear |
Forget those fears, drip no tears |
For the real, let me make it crystal clear |
This shit right here, this my year |
Stepping out feeling like the shit, my dear |
Forget those fears, drip no tears |
For the real, let me make it crystal clear |
I’m ballin, y’all should put a nigga on a box of Wheaties |
I’m skatin', when I dip, just put me on a box of Wheaties |
I flip it for the gold, gone, put me on a box of Wheaties |
I hold up weight, these haters need me on a box of Wheaties |
I kick it, they should stick a nigga on a box of Wheaties |
I run it 0−100, put me on a box of Wheaties |
I par up bar for bar, pa, put me on a box of Wheaties |
I K.O. |
every day yo, put him on a box of Wheaties |
Oh, you fresh now |
Since the rider requests masala and eggs |
Some caviar and French shit |
Subscription to Rich Nigga Monthly |
With Shad Moss on the cover, limited edition |
My bootstraps pull up |
My walls do a 360 |
I got the shit that the government got |
Yeah, you God damn right, God |
Blood, tears, and bite marks |
Fighting, sweat, it must been heavy metal in the right, guard |
Not a Led Zeppelin in the sweat from goin' quite hard |
According to this pie-chart, I should be in the psych ward |
I wrote the real nigga algorithm on the whiteboard |
They white-washed the style and put the rhythm in some Izod |
It’s close to four cyphers in a row |
On the time bomb, I mean I’m finna blow |
I figured you should know |
You might wanna get a pic for posterity with your Nikon |
Before you hear obligatory yos |
This shit right here, this my year |
Stepping out feeling like the shit, my dear |
Forget those fears, drip no tears |
For the real, let me make it crystal clear |
This shit right here, this my year |
Stepping out feeling like the shit, my dear |
Forget those fears, drip no tears |
For the real, let me make it crystal clear |
Ooooh, I know you wish you felt this high |
But I’m telling you |
No feeling low when you’re this high |
That’s why they gotta put me on |
I remember the first time I went to the motherland |
We talkin' what, '73, '74? |
I remember we flew into Dakar |
And this brother, picked me up from the airport, in one of them, you know, |
them Flintstone cars, you know? |
One door on the muhfucka |
Four mismatchin' wheels |
No headlights, we in Dakar and this brother ain’t got no headlights. |
Every- and the brothers in the street, everybody about as black as the night |
We go off into the abyss, take off, we talkin' bout 60−70 kilometers an hour |
I don’t know what that means, but, I know it was fast |
We flyin', you know, we flyin' through the Dakar night |
And I’m losin' my shit, you know, 'cause I can’t tell where this brother going, |
we drivin' into the void, you know |
And this motherfuckin man, you know, he just, laughin', you know |
And only now, you know, at 67 years old, that I get it |
You know? |
'Cause now, I’m that car, you understand what I’m sayin'? |
I’m that brother behind that, you know, Flintstone car, you know what I mean? |
'Cause I got one door, I got one headlight, but I tell you what, |
I know how to drive that motherfucker, I know how to drive that motherfucker, |
I tell you that, you know? |
You and your friends think you’re bad |
You’ve ended a life |
Destroyed a family |
Over a jacket, wheels, words |
So who’s next? |
Your best friend, your sister, you? |
Hey kids, get rid of your guns before it’s too late |