| What that good word is?
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| Chemist,
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| It’s on (1−7-9) yeah
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| Lets get it
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| Better have my money by Monday, been a month of Sundays
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| Humpty dumpty fell off, took off of me and he fled the country
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| The heads of customs used to tell me «Make it extra chunky»
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| Fed the puppies off the same food used to to junkies
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| Kept it funky, gritting with the grinders, I was pitching sliders
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| Never once did we hit for hire, it was fundamental
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| From the dribble, cut-throat Kuniva, learned that from my youngin from
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| Remember when he hit the drive and spun the rental
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| This shit ain’t even gotta be on you 'cause once it’s in you
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| 'fore you know it, it won’t be long 'before they unbefriend you
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| Burned my first mixtape, started with a hundred spindle
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| Heard he claiming brick mob but he not even from the
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| Catching vibes from the venue, crept inside from the window
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| Burnt the body up, they had to recognize him from his dental
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| My gun’ll drench you, instead I rather have youngin hit you
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| 'fore you kill them niggas dead, tell them guys I’m the one who sent you
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| Blocks, slid through with that one utensil
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| Tell me what you gon' do when they come and get you
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| Keep it a hundred with you, these niggas unofficial
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| Don’t want no smoke with us so don’t let it become an issue
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| From trapping in we fell in love with pistols
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| Catch you lacking without your, you should’ve brung it with you
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| Kidnap a nigga kids, leave a nigga brother crippled
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| For a couple scribbles get you painted like a color pencil
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| Now give the drummer some, trying to count up a honey bun
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| Jugging off of the smartphone, sent his ass on a dummy run
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| from the slums when they cough up a lung
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| Hundred clips, hundred drums
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| Teslas with the cummerbunds
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| Son of a gun on Sunderland, it was one and done
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| Ain’t nothing new under the sun except me jumping bun
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| In the H with Uncle Bun, sipping H with Uncle Chad
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| King of diamonds Mondays, ace of spades running up a tab
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| Falling out the bar drunk, the valet pulling up the Jag
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| Benz’s and Rovers back to back, now get
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| Pour the drink up in the plumb, my Draco hold a hun'
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| we feed the block like it’s Ramadan
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| My ambiance is of the spirit of
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| Walking out the Rite Aid with more pints than Father Johns
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| Pull the Wraith up on the lawn, we play with dope and guns
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| So don’t make me overdo it 'cause shit get overdone |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Summer Nights , by - The Alchemist. Song from the album Boldface - EP, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп