| Yo, ah, spokes, spinning gold, hunnerds folding
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| Hunnerd folds, rocking golds, stunting
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| That some swolle' hunnerds
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| Like they wasn’t though, push that other though
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| Summer zone, stuck on a stone
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| Rubbing the rabbits foot, fattened by that fish
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| Fathom
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| Full as fuck, like a Woolly and a phantom
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| In its mammoth mouth
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| Mix the fly fragrance with the Jasmine
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| Feeling passionate, passing by Pappy’s
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| In a Caddy frog, big-body Buick banging Dilla Dog
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| Lost in the thorns, almost cost him his arm
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| Super scrolls off the block with the charm
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| Blew his nose on a cloth made of yarn
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| Cool collected and calm
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| Should have been
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| Long nights had you looking at dawns
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| Could he be wrong? |
| And the energy
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| Feeling like the moon and me was meant to be
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| Left the day jealous like the sun doesn’t visit him
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| You kidding me B? |
| I’m where that chemistry peaks
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| Between wind and water, rich off calligraphy leaves
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| Written like…
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| Welcome to the Terrordome
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| Gold herringbone flow
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| Shell-toe Geronimo, domino bro'
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| Magical, moment of zoning
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| Dollar rate, scholar slate
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| You can’t tolerate with, what I consolidate
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| You fucking with me, that’s a myth that I just dominate
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| The Death Star shade of black
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| Barricade, bury your bus
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| Fade your area with various thrusts
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| The most dangerous, dangling diamond
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| Foreign languages hang with us, bang with us
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| Clap up your halo, sprinkle the angel dust
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| Solid stone, polished chrome
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| Saturday night special, I came to bless you
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| Unless you wanna get into some gangster
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| Do the math, I’m something Middle-Eastern
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| I’m a iron skillet, with hot grease, popping pieces
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| Rocking my sneakers on top of speakers
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| Cop a feature, and stop leaching
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| My dialog, dietary law requires for you to just
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| Go and jump off the deep end
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| My crisis, robbed twice
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| The Stock Market talking crisis
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| I’m not a Pisces, I keep Aquarius advisors
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| The nicest, burning the baggy tops off the cyphers
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| No need to test the vest
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| There’s no scales weighing these mices
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| Iron Flag fortune, brown bag, fortieth lunches
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| Y’all niggas lunching, like roasted ducks posted in ovens
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| I am flag money in the glad bag
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| Stretching ironclad, iron bag mic-jack low
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| Flashing the pistol, spazz
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| Green Cee-Lo, Elohim, cream Emo
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| I reload, throw Cee-Lo, hear, see no evil
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| Cobain credo, elope the Pope smoke his meat loaf
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| Bury the weed toast
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| We under siege, bleed East-Coast
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| And shorty deepthroat, be on her knees
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| Green Peacoat |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Doo Wop, artist - The Alchemist. Album song The Cutting Room Floor 3, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп