Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song The Red Light, artist - Smut Peddlers. Date of issue: 04.04.2002
Song language: English
The Red Light |
| The fuckin Trump. |
| Yeah cut it up, cut it up |
| This ain’t no, this ain’t no bright lights and big city |
| It’s dark alleys, red lights and no pity |
| I got it, locked, stocked, and two smokin bongs |
| Got trees soaked and drawn, the mute grow dissolve drawn |
| Independent like Ralph Nader |
| When I hate y’all like Dallas Cowboy tailgators |
| I used to cut up my arms |
| Now 12 arms cut up my vinyl pawns |
| Fuck fawn, I get embalmed on the john |
| Then step onstage for encore |
| Stab the promoter with the pen from his Palm 4 |
| East demenic, head dented, so devious |
| The most mischievous, check out the sleaziest |
| Deep in the dead of night, Peddlers getcha head right |
| This here be a soundtrack for the Red Light |
| Lick the side of my mouth out, see the words, gouged out |
| Letterin, hangin from the jaws, down stout |
| A verse in blood, that only hybrids see |
| And the non-creatives test my words fro HIV |
| This here ain’t no bright lights and big city |
| It’s dark allies, red lights with no pity |
| For all-a y’all raw dawgs that get gritty |
| Stack ones, carry guns, and live shitty |
| You get the tip while I piss on the barcheck |
| Give a bitch some head that I pulled out of a carwreck |
| Am I angelic or just slightly off track |
| My bones shift when my ripped off wings flap |
| Now it’s a damn shame |
| Don’t even fuck with that bull that got Time Corp |
| Coursin through his veins |
| Eon’s called fierce, cuz he’s all weird |
| Leave the fuckin record all cut up like Paul Pierce |
| My pain pour, quicker than Paul |
| Painful bulletholes that contain splinters from the front door |
| You seen how I did ya dawgs |
| Sent 'em home, souls collected, impaled on telephone poles |
| They all be catchin eights when I be slashin fakes |
| Makin fun of me? |
| I’m still pullin out on classmates |
| With laser-guided missles that don’t miss |
| Oh bitch, you don’t wanna test when I hold this |
| When the Earth is cast, it’s fuckin gun ashes |
| With different aspects of microphone spastics |
| Froze elastic, ass kissed the tragics |
| Swimmin through ya petty bullshittin life jackets |
| For the most glamorous eat this shit raw |
| E.C. put Cage down like a sick dog |
| Now kids fiend for my solo LP |
| Like crack addicted Co-Flow fans, you just flee |
| Slayin drones, beat 'em up with sticks and stones |
| Stick with man-to-man, don’t fuck around with zones |
| If I’m home or on neutral turf, when I blurt |
| You will hurt, this mics spurts when I smell dirt |
| I got a bullet with a name on it, dick got a blade on it |
| Lung got a stain on it, bottom-feeder get AIDS on it |
| I drop shit for the crowds to figure out |
| You touch the mic the crowd’ll breath and pour they liquor out |
| The Starbuck, The Word King |
| Alchemist, Smut Peddlers, ah-ha |
| My world. |
| is blue, Eastern Conference… |