| Give me a mountain. |
| Give me a sea
|
| Put your mind on wonderland, be what you want to be. |
| Wooow
|
| It’s Politics. |
| *Ha my nigga*
|
| Politics. |
| *Ha my nigga*
|
| Politics. |
| *Ha my nigga*
|
| Politics. |
| *Ha my nigga*
|
| Politics. |
| *Ha my nigga*
|
| Politics. |
| *Ha my nigga*
|
| Politics. |
| *Ha my nigga*
|
| Politics. |
| *Ha my nigga*
|
| Seven years and countin, I’ve been accounting
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| For unaccountable rap problems
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| 'Cause accountant countin his rap dollars
|
| The ice watch on the sleeve of the white collar
|
| Leanin like the Pisa towser, he’s in power
|
| Standing on top of the black bottom
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| You should pack up now that the dirty glove is with me Take your hat off inside of the mitten when you spittin
|
| 'Cause you can get it for sure
|
| Your whole rap clapped up out you
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| If I don’t get you back up Got you in a morgue sittin stiff in the drawer
|
| Niggaz I can’t be caught, I can’t be bought
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| They call me the anti-core, anti-talk
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| Anti, when it comes to gettin the kind of hugs
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| That come from a fake thug
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| That show me a sign of love
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| Who am I to judge but you would not out of love
|
| Walk up if I was washed up like a Tsunami flood
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| I ain’t trying to bug
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| But that’s why you got to shove
|
| Come on.
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| Excuse me while I school them on how to pay these dues
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| Tell whoever jealous and want to slay me, cool
|
| The whole game got the old bland of Mercedes blues
|
| Everybody wanna fill Jay-Z shoes
|
| I call it the Ferrari sniffs, the Phantom flu
|
| 'Cause y’all sick, what already exists, can’t be you
|
| I told y’all niggaz in oh-two that I can’t be touched
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| Yo bitch call me sugar dick with the candy nuts
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| But ain’t shit sweet, don’t get it twisted
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| I’ll beat yo ass, I don’t need wine, I don’t need cash
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| I’ll stick a sock in any nigga mouth in any market
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| If he talkin, he a target, walk in his apartment
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| While he drinkin, spark him 'til he leakin, coughin Remy Martin
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| 'Cause if I flip my lid, you’d have to toss him in the garbage
|
| Is nothin to toughen you out, fuck is you frontin about
|
| We cuttin you in, I’m cuttin you out
|
| Royce five nine is a prophet, in every sense of the word
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| Superb finisher, administer words like ministers
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| The tall tales of the low sales of a poet
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| Centuries rolled up in the pen that he holds up He holds it to holy grail, when he saw the soul
|
| he was since told his flows, the Davinci code decoded
|
| Since chosen, he prays harder
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| But everytime he spot a rival revolvers inside
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| His bible like, Gregory Heins with the rage of Harlem
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| Po-po's harder, team free-on, we so cold
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| Red like beam be on sight, we got weed neon green
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| We got a one yay, Celine Deion white, green
|
| Your last breath, you about five heartbeats away from death
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| 'Cause you the leon type, so muahh
|
| Make you rest in peace
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| No more records bein sold, less is me Five nine, unsigned
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| Yeahh, Royce Da 5'9″, my nigga Nottz
|
| This is a M.I.C and teams with collaboration
|
| Ladies and gentleman, I would like to introduce to you, Cee-Lo Green. |
| Let’s go Give me a mountain. |
| *Dream my nigga*. |
| Give me a sea
|
| It’s politics my nigga. |
| *repeat 8X* |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Politics, artist - Royce 5'9. Album song Lost Files, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп