Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Style Boys, artist - Shredders. Album song Dangerous Jumps, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 02.11.2017
Record label: Doomtree
Song language: English
Style Boys |
| Danger, danger, fear and anger |
| I see dead people when I talk to strangers |
| Scar where the stomach stops |
| Gotta get these bundles off |
| Bubbles in the soft focus |
| Shark wearer, spy hunter, shank owner |
| Dank burner, no limit top of the tank turner |
| Spot earner, plot thickener |
| Fingerprints, rubber on the Glock, alibi non sequitur |
| It wasn’t like we weren’t cookin' |
| We just got hung up on which direction we were lookin' |
| Proof is in the puttin' up the art |
| Might’ve framed a couple more |
| But every story’s got its arc |
| In any case, that was somethin' for the grudge holders to |
| Adjudicate |
| Pushing this human race car 'til the fumes escape |
| Did some wrongs, made a few mistakes |
| But that’s for you to throw the book at |
| I was panicked by impermanence |
| Working on some pertinent |
| Missed it on the first pitch, now I see the curve spin |
| A little worse for wear |
| Bad flying bird in the turbulent air (ay) |
| I studied rhymes to let the mind unwind |
| Now I make the words for work |
| What a sweet high five, pardon him |
| The heart got caught up in the nouns and verbs |
| The marketing seemed absurd |
| What part of parsin' a person apart for productin' |
| Made a truer self, when you knew the sell was the artifice? |
| I spot a fake and dissect it |
| The place is feeling like the Brexit |
| Came with a warning, home feeling foreign right now |
| The white sheets sleeping in the White House |
| Feed filled with personal brands |
| I got a few new demands |
| A rag and a gas can, damn he’s at it again |
| The language |
| The paint |
| The sanguine |
| Bad to the marrow in the pan, crunch bones |
| Sad boys get the grown man hush tones |
| Back hand flushed in they lame face |
| Save for the high five placed in the same place |
| No starts, no hearts neither |
| Serve up severe, steer clear of the theater |
| Accidentally fall for every real one |
| Casually lost when each one steals one |
| Zelda with the half a heart |
| Controller died before the level up had settled in |
| So when I try to boost and measure up I never win |
| Character stay blinkin' |
| Tryna get a handle what these baddies might be thinkin' |
| But I don’t care, really I couldn’t spare a neuron |
| Tossing brain cells at a peak of what’s beyond maybe |
| But not y’all, prolly nothin' of the sort |
| Rather rock a box a nails and |
| Hammer up a sturdy tree fort like home |
| The language |
| The paint |
| The sanguine |
| Amped in the basement |
| Camped in a place where the station is sacred |
| Dialed in, tuned up, ready |
| Dialed in, tuned up, ready, yeah |
| Practiced and patient |
| Stamped with a seal, it’s the real, no replacement |
| Dialed in, tuned up, ready |
| Dialed in, tuned up, ready to go |
| Amped in the basement |
| Camped in a place where the station is sacred |
| Dialed in, tuned up, ready |
| Dialed in, tuned up, ready, yeah |
| Practiced and patient |
| Stamped with a seal, it’s the real, no replacement |
| Dialed in, tuned up, ready |
| Dialed in, tuned up, ready to go |