Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song The Fuckery Hotel, artist - Slaine. Album song The Boston Project, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 15.04.2013
Record label: Suburban Noize
Song language: English
The Fuckery Hotel |
| Death before dishonor, still growin' like a farmer |
| So-called soldiers walk around in glass armor |
| I remain calm or run the point like Chalmers |
| I can feel the ghost of the victims I plan to bomb on |
| I plan to avoid the penitentiary, pencil these poetic memoirs |
| Of a star trapped, thoughts tap, ADHD |
| All that bipolar make me fall back |
| What y’all lack I instill in pen skill, lyrical contact |
| Yeah, dog, I got a bottle and a Prada model |
| These cats wanna fist fight but I’m homicidal |
| I can’t keep my mind swayed, all the drama I know |
| And my cocaine is rockier than Colorado |
| I got a single-shot Ruger, hopin' that I hit my mark |
| The life of a shooter, my brain is like a fuckin' dart |
| I been sippin' 40's in the park, duckin' from the narcs |
| Bustin' from the heart, pussy, all the stars torn apart |
| Aimed at those who oppose where my life’s headed |
| On a futon, eatin' croutons with light lettuce |
| On a cruise ship, stuntin' with my new chick |
| She keep both hands on my dick like a pool stick |
| She the coke holder and I ain’t talkin' soda |
| 'Bout to run a train on the game, baby, bend it over |
| Be my Henny coaster, ass stupid fat |
| Couple shots of Henrock, no question what I do to that |
| True to fact, Rugers blast steady on the block |
| Henny on the rock, gimme-gimme plenty shit to talk |
| Them are not really ready, I should have been killed already |
| I would have been dead and buried in the very cemetery |
| In Roxbury with every Tom, Harry and Jerry |
| But I ain’t never worry for nothin', nobody is scary |
| I came up the hard way, I earned what I have |
| Caught the science of the violence and I learned all the math |
| Carry gasoline tanks, I was burnin' my path |
| Held a razor blade close, I’m determined to slash |
| Fuck two porn bitches spittin' sperm in the bath |
| Punch 'em both, but they weren’t into that |
| I’m fuckin' with ya |
| Taught to never testify, beef, we let them weapons fly |
| Feel the hunger when I rap, you niggas look like shepherd’s pie |
| Paralyzed by coke lines and methadone |
| Shoot you in the chest, you should have never left your vest at home |
| I left your heart and a part of boy in the water |
| No love for these little heifers, we sendin' them all to slaughter |
| Ain’t none offer to take care of your sons and daughters |
| Regardless of niggas' profits you politickin' with prophets |
| I done fucked with porn bitches too, sorry to reiterate |
| Penetrate dinner plate interstate ridin' rhetoric head it |
| Get all exes a slight, ex-wife bitch and moanin' |
| Picturesque moment: Kali, Reks, and Slaine own it |
| The modern version of hate I slaughter virgins escape |
| The sort of version of fate you can’t record on a tape |
| I’m an animal in the jungle, can’t cordon a ape |
| I’m a lion defying a giant flying with capes |
| I am firing weight, tight spiral when I’m wired and I’m |
| Burning houses up while the fireman wait |
| You exist in my nightmare, I can die in my sleep |
| Buyin' an eighth, you gotta love me I am the great |
| So get your white sheets, yellow tape, pistol poppin' set you straight |
| Hit your head and hit your face then close your casket at your wake |
| Hustlin' proper, guzzlin' vodka, no one can stop us |
| We totin' choppers at helicopters, we fuckin' mobsters |
| Put steak sauce on your tits and have a barbecue |
| Bring your daughter, dude, I’m John Madden calling audibles |
| I’m Charles Manson in the game how I slaughter crews |
| Typhooned raps, spit a verse, make the water move |