Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song High Noon (Do Not Forsake Me), artist - Tex Ritter.
Date of issue: 21.03.2019
Song language: English
High Noon (Do Not Forsake Me) |
Yo yo |
We rude bwoys Van-city outlaws |
Yo, the Red reaper, bust back your street sweeper |
Call Mr. Martin and the preacher |
To the saloon, the showdown high noon |
Men dressed all black, yo pon cock platoon |
Outlaws, shedding blood by the liter |
Saddle up, ride into the sun, done defeat ya |
Ride out and scout a safe hideout |
With a bounty on my head, that’s the word of the moth |
Misfit and Red, wanted alive or dead |
But Billy bad on the draw, cowboy ninja dread |
Retreat to the bush where the Indians live |
To survive off the land, recuperating |
Yo, walk the warpath like a brave Mohican |
Then scalpel the tongue chief rocker speaking |
Young gun, bust and murder the sound boy |
Anything in my way, no choice but to destroy |
«Hold my ground like it’s high noon» [-- Inspectah Deck |
Trigger happy, blazing these mics to this undoubtedly |
Unanimous that we the champ, to center your cipher |
And blow up the ship, just to get a rep, that’s the way we step |
Droppin rhymes, so clean out the top |
You think I had a violent |
Naughty locks chopping you down like box cutters |
Spreading this lyric on the ideo like butters |
Gripping neck, keeping next, the style that you missing |
But you be getting it from the rendition |
Hitting this rap game with some tight shit to remain |
Cause it’s only the quicker the dead and I must remain |
You know the name, Misfit, speed of the mantis |
Rhymes will split your wig at ten paces, show down shit |
So bring it, you had your warning |
Mr. Martin, is on his way with an open coffin |
Talking your way out of this, won’t happen |
We taking it to the front of the stage with a gun clapping |
And when we done with your, we run your crew out of town |
Dis that shit, stomp your wack lick sound |
Never come around or let us catch you on the rebound |
We pound suckers like cats who can’t rap, who want to clown |
Yo dressed and ready to shoot, in my bad boy suit |
Pistol grip on the hip like these cowboy boots |
Ready to rip, some running judgement day coming |
When we clack and reload like Kardinal done it |
And ban it from the ground to the roof |
'Nuff chat dem rats, se we leave no proof |
As we move, rarely got nothing to prove |
Rough ride and abide by none of the rules |
Work our vibe, watch the hand read the eyes |
Quick draw, nobody moves nobody dies |
Yo, we in control let the story be told |
By the Rascal outlaws from the north coast |
What, you didn’t know, FitnRed handle them foe |
Take of the them soul, hang 'em out, let them die slow |
And account of who the best was when they roll |
Granted by the hand passage who afraid to explode |
Yeah yeah, that’s the way it goes |
Anti-??? |
behold, we lay down tracks while the rest of be told |
So best move and gets go, act like you’ve been told |
By the heat of the sun or the tongue, when we let go |
**Chorus continues in background** |
Word, see what I’m saying |
Rascalz, straight up we ain’t playing |
North west side of things |
The Outlaws laying it down |
The story’s already been told |
Rascalz, is the way we come brother |
Word *repeated* |
«That sound, is there time for hope?» |
[-- ??? |