Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Sun Doobie, artist - Slaughterhouse. Album song Slaughterhouse - EP, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 07.02.2011
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: E1
Song language: English
Sun Doobie |
As long as I got my pen I don’t need a friend |
We got ears that we each’ll lend each other, my brother just hollered at me |
again |
He said he tired of all the lyin, deceivin and |
Dick-ridin the people providin on every beat but when |
I do it it’s stupid, I bruise it like a bad bitch |
I lose it, my music’s a movement and they just mad stiff |
I told 'em it’s mathematical in this pad lift |
Point 'em out and I will subtract him, with an ad lib |
See the fact is (what) I’m a bastard |
How can I not be Macho, Man? |
I’m a Savage |
In the past I was passive, now I’m mad bitch |
I’m spazzin, you get an Adidas classic where yo' ass is |
Eh-eh, eh-eh, Nickel ain’t the one at all |
Snatch your vocal chords out then plug 'em in my wall |
You a knife at a gun fight, our shit is raw |
You a square, you’re silverware in a civil war |
The Slaughterhouse wolf pack, riders under the moon |
The reason you itchin wit’cha lighter under your spoon |
I’m a lover, the lead bustin is old to me |
You put your head in her butt, I headbutt the ovaries |
God dipped me in war paint for all weathers |
I’m Mr. spill the liquor on my alcohol tether |
No need to ride with nobody, I feel the heat can help me |
Your jean’s skinnier than Em is when he eatin healthy, hahaha |
WHOA, WHOA, WHOA |
WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, Shaaady! |
WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, WHOA |
WHOA, WHOA, WHOA, WHOA |
Outnumbered, outspoken, outcasted |
Outweighed outrageous odds and outlasted |
Outlandish, so I learned to outwit 'em |
I outsmart 'em, outgrew 'em, I outdid 'em |
Cream, out-bid 'em, team can’t out-spit him |
(You could) Keep sleepin, your wet dream is out with him |
(See) Do a lil' yoga, a lil' kama sutra |
Steakhouse nigga, used to be a Ramen Noodler |
Heavy on B and E’s, was a calm intruder |
Pumped a Ruger, moms called me con and loser |
I suggest you and your mans’ll regroup (why?) |
Bet against it, and probably can’t recoup — out! |
I point a pistol at your mamma mia |
I’m sick as Tyson in the ring at the Colosseum with gonorrhea |
Fuck a rapper, my clapper black as Bahamadia |
Fuck you R&B bitches, shut up! |
You not Aaliyah |
(Ha ha!) When Mr. Porter record a piano |
Producers may wanna order some ammo |
I’m a California corner reporter |
Your boy wasn’t born with a quarter, bein' poor was a horror |
And now my aura is sorta Soprano; |
look here |
We reinvent the wheel to have a good year — and y’all tired |
We like Tyler Perry mixed with Everlast |
The House of Payne/Pain, Slaughterhouse gang nigga! |