Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Hey Young World, artist - La Coka Nostra. Album song The Best of Snowgoons, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 20.08.2015
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Babygrande
Song language: English
Hey Young World |
It’s Ill Bill the abominable, I’m sicker than vomit in food |
Osama Bin Laden of goons, you’re all mine to abuse |
You don’t overstand me, homie, you not in my shoes |
You not built for these weapons I use |
The most focused, La Coka Nostra overthrow culture |
Murder monarchs, overdosage of my murder mosh parts |
Hard like hitting cars with bazookas |
Been the future, crucial manoeuvres confusing to the usual consumers |
Who you fooling? |
The people are restless |
You’re like a Judas Priest molester being castrated screaming for vengeance |
At the cathedral bleeding appendages rendered offensive |
Medical attention denied, you bled and you died |
Nowadays kids pose on the front page of the newspaper |
Holding automatic assault rifles |
We’ll send you to God, we’re all lifers |
Contradictory at times we all devils and we all righteous |
Hey young world, streets are cold |
They’re washed in blood, not paved in gold |
Once they get a grip can’t break your hold |
A walk with the devil can’t save your soul |
You’ll be everywhere like air |
Every year you should see me |
Industry in the streets, anywhere but your TV |
This little attempted murder case couldn’t keep me |
I still be overseas like Blood graffiti |
Put a Decept to death, don’t get it twisted |
? |
cause I look so good in it, go get your biscuit, bitches |
If you don’t like it or love it, ain’t gotta like it, I love it |
We can fight, I like punching you niggas' lights out in public |
The sight of a lot of your blood’s like a stop sign |
And when I’m done I’m like, «Ugh, fucked up my Nike Ones.» |
It’s Mr. Monster, Mad Rocco, pop toast |
Pop ex and finger pop hoes at the same time, homes |
Worldwide bootcampian champion |
Mac 4s branch in charge of them cannons |
? |
St. hands that are blamming and training the animals with the flammables |
While y’all niggas all romantical bitches |
In the cauldron of chaos and violence I’m conditioned with this vicious habit |
Broken dishes, liquor bottles in my kitchen cabinet |
Empty baggies, pill residue, prescription plastic |
You’re witnessing the withdrawal of a twitching addict |
These streets is like a twisted labyrinth |
I’m dripping liquid in the glass, pour it from the bottom of a fifth of Havoc |
In the midst of madness I switched it and spat it |
? |
paper dripping and lyrics scrawled cryptic and scattered |
I write, I’m alright, it’s just savage, hustling and switching rackets |
So I can stay a step ahead of all you snitching maggots |
Of course I’m shooting to live rich and lavish |
But your outfit ain’t about shit, we’re cut from a different fabric |
The sin is addict, it’s cinematic, I been erratic |
Since I heard the corner call and went and had a glimpse |
I hopped the fence and hit the ground running when I fell |
Now I dwell in purgatory just a block away from Hell |
I keep fighting war, I keep writing raw |
Keep classic shit updated, Street Fighter 4 |
You a sucker for love that keep wife and whores |
Drive an Acura Integra, so ‘94 |
I’m so shiny boy you can look at the watch |
Don’t look too long duke, you might get shot |
Gun blast, bullets rubbing your bones |
Shoot a guy in a suit and tie, nigga, I am Brother Mouzone |
Ain’t nobody fucking with mine |
David Patterson can’t see so you know we rob the government blind |
Stuck in the grind, niggas still hustling dimes |
Hustling dubs, Ruckus get you stuck for your shine |
Rugged is prime, you are a thing of the past |
Leader of the new school, I did my thing in the class, P |