Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Thorough, artist - Solomon Childs. Date of issue: 03.03.2022
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Thorough |
| Just in case y’all niggaz ain’t understand what the fuck’s poppin'* |
| Wolves, Theodore Unit, hey! |
| That’s how we doing it baby, yo |
| Rap’s pharaoh in the latest apparrel |
| Plus out my barrel, bullets fly like a sparrow |
| Supermen brother, I’m strong and narrow |
| One word in my herd, bring more beef than cattle |
| Ghost past the toast, Solomon you follow him |
| Let me splat, and we dump him up in Staten |
| This ain’t rapping, it’s quiet law |
| It don’t take too much to meet your eye of God |
| I’m from Boston, we don’t spill no beans |
| It’s rather infrared beams, in the myst of your team |
| Now, Lean Back, like Joe, then riddle |
| When I hold the semi, spit 'moore'than Demi |
| Cold and deadly, take the soul of any |
| Whether, young or dumb, or you old and petty |
| Ready, on your mark, set, go |
| Let your double ends up tight, boy, now let’s go |
| Eyes wide, mouth foaming, start stere' |
| All you see is, Boston and Park Hill |
| I thought y’all knew |
| How we move, always carry the tool |
| If I don’t win, you lose, thorough |
| In every borough, chasing paper, we ain’t fucking with you |
| Try’nna eat? |
| Here’s something I drew |
| Let’s go, yo we guzzle like forty cases |
| Don Perignon bottles, broke in mad places |
| Bathtubs that never been touched, we fucked in 'em |
| Ran trains on bitches, with condoms, Stark up, any tuck |
| That’s right, if my gun empty, my bop get bigger |
| You see the bigger bulge in the leg of the Hillfig’nigga |
| The streets is dark, standing from the car, shoot at the NARC’s |
| They dead meat, you see they technique, rolling through parks |
| There, if I gotta tell you about a real rap tale |
| Plants, cocoa leaves, tree popo beef, blow ya face off |
| Just to see what’s underneath, bet you I do it |
| Give me five, I can rap to it |
| Stuck a ratchet to ya sister, like move it |
| This is Tone, yo, I’m fucking with a real Unit |
| And your brother was a real informant, I kinda like you |
| You got a fat ass, how can I see you in the G4 |
| Burners, corrupt boulevards |
| TNT mark cars, bullets in the garage |
| Blitz, bank truck explosions |
| Soldiers hit, chronic in the ice cream truck |
| Big bucks, twenty two’s on them Tonka trucks |
| When the going get tough, the tough get going |
| No pain, no gain, the game’s still the same |
| Staten Island, New York, fifty hits |
| Bullets just appearing out of the clips |
| Black ghetto magic, abracadabra |
| You could talk that military shit, it don’t matter |
| Strike the shepherd and the sheep will scatter |
| Back by popular demand, Sara Lee cakes and yellow capri’s |
| Maybeline bitch with the steams |
| Lieutenant Solomon Childs of the Theodore |
| Two thousand and four Commodore, come on |
| Knowhatimsayinn, Krumbsnatcha, Ghostface |
| Holla… my nigga Solomon Childs, hey |
| Wu-Tang, hey, Boston… |
| Out for you nigga, hahahaha |
| Nottz you killing these niggaz on the beats |
| God, you need to stop it, kid… haha |
| We at it again… one |