Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Heat-Seeker, artist - Sam Smith. Date of issue: 01.09.2011
Song language: English
Heat-Seeker |
| The bling-bling era was cute but it’s about to be done |
| I leave ya full of clips like the moon blocking the sun |
| My metaphors are dirty like herpes but harder to catch |
| Like an escape tunnel in prison I started from scratch |
| And now these parasites wanna percent of my ASCAP |
| Trying to control perspective like an acid flashback |
| But here’s a quotable for every single record exec |
| Get your fucking hands out my pocket, nigga, like Malcolm X |
| But this ain’t a movie, I’m not a fan or a groupie |
| And I’m not that type of cat, you can afford to miss if you shoot me |
| Curse to heavens and laugh when the sky electrocutes me |
| Immortal Technique stuck in your thoughts darkening dreams |
| No one’s as good as me, they just got better marketing schemes |
| I leave ya to your own destruction like sparking a fiend |
| 'Cause you got jealousy in ya voice like Starscream |
| And that’s the primary reason that I hate ya, faggots |
| I’ve been nice since niggaz got killed over 8 Ball jackets |
| And Reebok Pumps that didn’t do shit for the sneaker |
| I’m a heat-seeker with features that’ll reach through the speaker |
| And murder counter-revolutionaries personally |
| Break a thermometer and force feed his kids mercury |
| ANR’s tribe jerking me thinking they call shots |
| Offered me a deal and a blanket full of small pocks |
| You’re all getting shot, you little fucking treacherous bitches |
| This is the business, and y’all ain’t getting nothing for free |
| And if you devils play broke, then I’m taking your company |
| You can call it reparations or restitution |
| Lock and load nigga, industrial revolution |
| I want fifty three million dollars for my collar stand |
| Like the Bush administration gave to the Taliban |
| And fuck packing grams, nigga, learn to speak and behave |
| You wanna spend twenty years as a government slave |
| Two million people in prison keep the government paid |
| Stuck in a six block eight cell alive in the grave |
| I was made by revolution to speak to the masses |
| Deep in the club toast the truth, reach for the classes |
| I burn an orphanage just to bring heat to you, bastards |
| Innocent deep in a casket, Columbian fashion |
| Intoxicated of the flow like Thug’s Passion |
| You motherfuckers will never get me to stop blastin' |
| You’re better off asking Ariel Sharon for compassion |
| You’re better off banging for twenty points for a label |
| You’re better off battling cancer under telephone cabels |
| Technique chemically unstable, set to explode |
| Foretold by the dead sea scrolls written in codes |
| So if your message ain’t shit, fuck the records you sold |
| 'Cause if you go platinum, it’s got nothing to do with luck |
| It just means that a million people are stupid as fuck |
| Stuck in the underground in general and rose to the limit |
| Without distribution managers, a deal, or a gimmick |
| Revolutionary Volume 2 murder the critics |
| And leave your fucking body rotten for the roaches and crickets |