Lyrics Bulletproof Denali - Speak

Bulletproof Denali

Westside, Art Goon, Craigslist Killer
Westside, Art Goon, Craigslist Killer
Westside, Art Goon, Craigslist Killer
Westside, Art Goon, Craigslist Killer
Son of a gun, I guess my father was a bayonet
Ambien will keep me calm, I pop 'em like they Raisinets
I’m bumping ravenets so loudly up on my cassettes
I love 'em, leave' em, fuck 'em, never call
Now they get upset
What the fuck is popping?
They say that Speak is popping
Air Force Ones laced up, okay, I get to stomping
I swear to God, I could’ve been a St. Lunatic
Got all the pretty Muslim girls on my Jewish dick
Praise be to Allah, Based God, and Jesus
And the eco-friendly hoochies whipping in the Prius
They call me an elitist and my attitude is cocky
But rapping just a hobby, I’m the Sheikh of Abu Dhabi
So bring me all your oil, bring me all your gold
And wipe your fucking feet when you step in my abode
I know you make the rules, but my people don’t abide
And if you want to die, okay, I’m happy to oblige
Gas in the dash and my bitch riding shotty
I’m 'bout to live forever in my bulletproof Denali (Even if you kill me!)
In my bulletproof Denali (I ain’t ever gonna die!), in my bulletproof Denali
Gas in the dash and my bitch riding shotty
I’m 'bout to live forever in my bulletproof Denali (Even if you kill me!)
In my bulletproof Denali (I ain’t ever gonna die!), in my bulletproof Denali
Westside, Art Goon, Craigslist Killer
Westside, Art Goon, Craigslist Killer
Westside, Art Goon, Craigslist Killer
Westside, Art Goon, Craigslist Killer
Son of a bitch, I guess my momma was a Saint Bernard
I’m all about the pervert life, okay, my dick is always hard
I feel like Ma$e when he was dancing in the shiny suits
If I cut my wrists tonight, I’d bleed one-hundred-ninety proof
Bluetooth headsets while I’m having sex
I’m on a conference call, I’m busting nuts, I’m getting checks
I’m checking for the chubby girls, but now I need a MILF
With tubes tied, they don’t need the morning-after pill
Morning after kills, my blunt is filled with daffodils
They ask me why I’m rapping still, well, Sony owe me half a mill
They say I’m next to blow, but my music need a plan
But rapping just a hobby, I’m the emperor of Japan
So bring me all your geishas and my kimono robe
And bow your fucking head when you step in my abode
I know you make the rules, but my people don’t abide
And if you want to die, okay, I’m happy to oblige