| Just wakin up in the morning, gotta thank God
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| Last night my uncle pulled off a bank job
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| Them rich crackers they robbed in Cape Cod
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| can’t even make out a race of a face so they straight y’all
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| My momma dead, I trained my daddy to get her back
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| I know a lot of y’all thinkin, «What kind of shit is that?»
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| That’s fact, but if you wanna jump on a fast track
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| He can kiss my whole black ass crack
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| That ain’t sound right, this shit is true as ever
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| It’s simply what you get when you put two and two together
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| The red Panorama, fuck it, the blue Carrera
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| The Porsche Cayenne, the sedan, the coupe, whatever
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| Every day above ground is a good day
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| I’ve been around ten years and I should stay
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| The realest rapper in the world what I would say
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| My actions so loud you wouldn’t hear me anyway
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| Yo (Bleek)
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| Light the weed up, pour the D’USSE
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| I never gave a fuck about what you say
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| Just know your main bitch is a side bitch
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| I hit her with the Pro Tools, left her to you, logic
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| Greasy, back on that shit again
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| My bullets kill, murder, call it a synonym
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| I’m 'bout to sin again, niggaz fuckin with him again
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| I kill bosses, merely cripple the middlemen
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| And any day I break bread is a great day
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| Play with the money, I’m Bobby Johnson, you Ray Ray
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| As my nigga Sai' said, «Bleek don’t play»
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| They know a nigga mean business holdin down that K
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| Yeah the S.K., A.K., B-K, 100 K
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| Ridin in the V with the G-L-O-C-K
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| Yeah, M-Greasy the meanest
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| I’m so hot niggaz can’t extinguish
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| Uhh (Bibby)
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| The block is hot, the cops they watch us
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| We, load the Glock up, shoot yo' block up
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| We don’t ever fight so don’t try and box us
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| Swear they gon' need more police to stop us
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| Hustle for the dollars, weed I got a lot of
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| Diamonds on my robins, they sag on her Pradas
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| Better fix yo' cap jack, 'fore you get yo' scalp cracked
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| Why you on my block thuggin knowin you ain’t 'bout that?
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| Fuckin up these beats got the streets on fire
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| And my youngest play with heat, the police on fire
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| If you want beef 2−2-3's gon' ride
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| And if you got them hundreds you can meet 4−5
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| But if you ain’t got shit, that’ll get you shot quick
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| Niggaz in the streets know I’m all about a profit
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| The block is hot, the ops get shot
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| And I know they want revenge so my Glock is cocked
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| (G!) From the land where they reach here, Omaha Beach here
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| Not the place you sunbathe in your beach chair
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| No white sands, nobody tannin with the bleach hair
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| Sanitation’ll bleach your blood out the streets here
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| Far from mellow, hard fellow, Frank Costello
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| Orchestrate his harps and cellos
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| And swear they sell, blow the door on theyself
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| Called survival of the fittest, he did it, go into self-mode
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| Camoflauge in your pocket, garage stealth mode
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| Run with the rumors; |
| I run with these consumers
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| I put cats on your head like skully hat for Puma
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| Costume at the crib like I’m fixin cable
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| Hit your navel and put your lunch back on the kitchen table
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| Head with one big hole, like a twisted bagel
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| Get tagged up in the bag with the zipper label
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| Big calibre shit so everything you get is fatal |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Mechanical Animals, artist - Saigon. Album song GSNT 3: The troubled times of Brian Carenard, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп