Lyrics 5 Left In The Clip - The Weathermen

5 Left In The Clip

Copywrite the white James Brown, write flames down
High rate on these light weight clowns with light weight sounds
You lie face down while I take crowns and violate towns
And fuck who opened up, it’s my place now
But you barking loudly
For a mutt that’s part Chihuahua
Still shine when I’m high, partly sunny, partly cloudy
You talking mouthy?
And I’mma duct tape you fuck faces
Ain’t no way to straighten how you bit, fuck braces
Gauges end up blazing out you cliques, duck quickly
I’m like a broken condom, none of y’all can fuck with me
I hope you cope with that revolving gat aimed at your frame and the palms will
clap
The High Exaulted’s back
Fresh off tour
Yeah, left a mess on whores
Promoters that owe us dough sweat bullets through Teflon pours
And I match 'em two for every one they sweat out
Spread the led out with highbeams
I’m like Visine I get the red out
We at the club and I’m out of my forehead
Eyes so bloodshed, everything’s painted all red
And we all wet, shit my crew all bent
Enough to send shots straight through the doors of a Benz limo
So obliterated, they ID 'em by the passenger’s dental
Pissy drunk and I’m tippin' like domino’s
We live it up plush plus we get high and I love it when I’m in the cut
Sipping my cup in fly denim
Haters know we got fly with 'em, bitches wanna rock with 'em
After the bar, leaving with so-called rap stars
Smoking too many blunts, they making me laugh hard
We rap gods, Weathermen
It’s time to blast off
Tame been All City since Tootie had small titties
Come to the mall’s with me
I be spending all fifty’s
High again
With enough smoke to choke a fireman
Last seen with 76 phillies like Iverson
High and bent in my environment
Where I invent lyrical violence
That’ll separate the mice from the men
I Timberland swamp stomp competition that’s listening
Twice as interesting cause I’m different
The difference in being the champ or going the distance
Tame One, the Cheech wizard
Tragic magic, mental dyslexic, be rapping backwards when I practice
Mentally hit, bent, like I’m taking a shit
Drink a whole Hennessy fifth and won’t trip
See me in the corner rolling chocolate chips in little Bricks
That’s the Izabella, twenty twen' twen' twen', like Chris Tucker
This mahfucker
Tame is that nigga
You chilling at a killer’s dinner party
Evening will pull us, put a blade in you it’s just retrieving the bullets
Death’s still touring, stars thinking of warring
You’re weaker each release like Lucas wrote they shit for 'em
I’m just trying to get my money to build
But I can’t feel with my hands so Cage is coming to kill
And fix these numbers
And spend some of this HBO check on embalming like Six Feet Under
Left side of the stadium get torn the fuck down
Give these indie rap squaters more reason to suck now
Shit, piss and corruption so fuck the love
While I roll with my cult following and drain some blood
Breezily I approach, I spy on enemies
Heatedly like I’m coached by Bobby Knight, y’all Brian Denney’s
I be tight seeing these bad actors
See your ass crack, you’re drunk at some gay bar on fag daiquiris
Life’s trife, Al-Queda wide eyed
I hear «Death to the infidels»
I fear for my wife’s life
Then my thoughts switched
Had some talks with my Weathermen brethren
Now I pimped that star bitch
Perform, get your doe, you show your ass, nice good tits
Hold it down for the pound, cover heist footprints
We weather whatever men
Y’all whether or not to continue living
Given you know you never have sex… with women
The crew’s legit, could never be sloppy
I see Copy, Copy, Copy, leaving brothers on some Puba shit
Just avoid Cage
Yak, Tame, Breezly Brewin, swing harder than Sammy Sosa during 'roid rage