Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Writer's Block, artist - Royce 5'9. Date of issue: 08.08.2011
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Writer's Block |
| Yeah! |
| I don’t know what else to say |
| I can’t, I can’t think of nothin' |
| I’m stumped, here we go! |
| On your feet! |
| Stand up! |
| Everybody hands up! |
| Uh, man, I don’t know man |
| Every time I go to think of something played out to say |
| You already said it |
| I ain’t callin' names 'cause all of y’all the same |
| Plus I’m the king, all my past pain all done changed up |
| All these plains, all these lames, since the Slaughter’s came up |
| 'Cause they know their hands tied, feet ball and chained up |
| Niggas be quick to call me the new 50 Cent |
| Because of my relationship with Marshall |
| Used to make me a little partial, but here’s the brain fuck |
| We the same, 'cause |
| I’m probably 'bout to fall out with a young buck |
| While I attempt to fuck the fuckin' game up |
| Bitch, splat! |
| Only thing I fear in here is chit-chat |
| You are hearin' bars like your ear against a Kit Kat |
| Shady guys like the Navy, try us, wavey bye-bye |
| Maybe my Glock can turn your top to Baby’s Maybach |
| My shit is parvo, literally sick |
| Trust me, nigga, it’s ugly to kill; |
| the thing is, the bigger I get |
| The more disgustin' and fuckin' disfigured it gets |
| Niggas expect me to go pop, oh, stop |
| Y’all about the Champagne, I’m about the toast, I |
| Only fuck with mailmen with heroin from Boca |
| Niggas that’ll smoke you while you starin' in your postbox |
| Only incense he enlightens when he’s thinkin' |
| While that sinks in, I got a Brinks ink pen |
| I’m back! |
| Motherfucker, notice the flyness on the cover |
| Of the XXL, I’m back from the dead |
| Like Tobey Maguire from the Brothers |
| How y’all realer? |
| If I said it, I did it |
| If I didn’t, I seen it first-hand like a card dealer |
| Give up the throne: your lease up; |
| I am the Mona Lisa |
| That decoded Da Vinci Code, you throwin' your piece up |
| Is a waste of fake like a phony B-cup |
| Makin' the mistake was like my only teacher |
| Wait 'til they get a load of me, 'cause— |
| I’ve got Guccis on my feet, diamonds on my neck |
| Diamonds on my wrist, bitches on my dick |
| But y’all already said that |
| Choppers in the trunk, models in the front |
| Bottles in the club, but I don’t give a fuck |
| But y’all already said that |
| 'Cause sometimes I feel like it’s so hard for me |
| To come up with shit to say, ayy |
| I’m at a loss for words, 'cause y’all already said it all |
| I think I’m runnin' outta clichés |
| I’m gettin' writers block, psyche! |
| When I stand up in this booth, niggas notice it |
| Sittin' on the same boat that Noah built |
| Floatin' on the same water Moses split |
| Poetry in motion, but we sittin' on your grave site: overkill |
| Aren’t you tired? |
| Why are you so loud? |
| Quiet |
| Real dudes move in silence, like a mute drivin' a new hybrid |
| You dudes is too excited |
| You a dude that’d try to sue a dude that’s suicidal |
| You will just be another victim |
| I’m like a nickel of weed rolled in a doobie: I’m a little twisted |
| I roll like the end credits in movies, y’all just got scripted |
| Got y’all niggas' bitches bobbin' to this one when she wit' ya |
| When she with me, she bobbin', not vibin' |
| Tryna put her mind into the inside of my zipper |
| I’m a serpent with a purpose |
| Havin' problems? |
| Not a problem |
| I’ve encountered, I have found elephants, lions, clowns |
| Will jump through hoops like they workin' for the circus |
| If the fire 'round the circle’s right in front of them, fire rounds |
| Pun intended, gun extended, what are you marks askin'? |
| Car’s Aston, started as a hard-top and I saw past it |
| Since I decided to start class, this all black, all glass |
| Panoramic roof been gettin' marked absent |
| I authorize my own all-access |
| Your bitch a whore, I’m a catch, she ball-catchin' |
| Her jaw’s been broadcasted |
| All across the globe from the store to Japan |
| Her pussy need to be blocked and reported as spam |
| Interscope, I been this dope |
| Now sell it, my voicemail is full |
| Got bitches screamin' inside of envelopes |
| And they tryna mail ‘em to me |
| Tryna reach my phone, I don’t know which one is harder: |
| Tryin' not to take your bitch or tryna get rid of my own |
| I’ve got Guccis on my feet, diamonds on my neck |
| Diamonds on my wrist, bitches on my dick |
| But y’all already said that |
| Choppers in the trunk, models in the front |
| Bottles in the club, but I don’t give a fuck |
| But y’all already said that |
| 'Cause sometimes I feel like it’s so hard for me |
| To come up with shit to say, ayy |
| I’m at a loss for words, 'cause y’all already said it all |
| I think I’m runnin' outta clichés |
| I’m gettin' writers block, psyche! |
| Man, get the bozac! |
| We need to start bringin' that shit back (Mad flava!) |
| Man, fuck it, I’m 'bout to catch some wreck |
| (We in effect, money!) |
| Mad props to Royce for keepin' it real |
| On the strength, no diggity |
| I’m 'bout to go pull some hoes, get my mack on |
| Haters get the gas face! |