| This ain’t no marathon, never worry on
|
| If she throw it back, Barry Bonds
|
| Great debate, let it carry on
|
| You be Mike Wallace, I’ll be Farrakhan, Un-American
|
| If I’m in the room, I’m the elephant
|
| My cellphone is like a telethon
|
| Don’t be insulting my intelligence
|
| I’m the poster child, gold chain
|
| Gold ring, gold watch, I’m the golden child
|
| Know Translee, who’s Translee
|
| Got dammit, do you know me now?
|
| Hope you absorbing that
|
| These liquor stores they be sorta packed
|
| The new world order ordered that
|
| That’s why guns got no safety
|
| Cause we just want our corner back, you get that?
|
| No safety man
|
| Cause we just want our cornerback
|
| That’s one-hundred like quarter sacks
|
| I’m more than rap, I need moolah before I oolah
|
| Im more Busta Rhymes than Martin Lawrence I wooahhh before I woosaah
|
| With a cool drive, Im too live
|
| Your momma gonna need your suit size how my crew ride
|
| In due time
|
| Never be a loser, always win like a cool breeze
|
| I be listening to Cool Breeze
|
| My cologne is Cool Breeze, my belt cost two g’s
|
| That’s kind of overboard I know
|
| I got dope vocal chords, I know
|
| I rock the dopest clothes, I know
|
| I got the dopest hoes, I know
|
| I got the most… I know
|
| Hooligan, fooligan, hooligan, shwooligan, wooligan, wooligan, shooligan
|
| That’s what I heard when I turn on the radio
|
| Rappers should be more intuitive
|
| That way nobody dies, cause I see nobody tries
|
| That’s why when ya’ll drop ya’ll shit it’s like ya’ll fans gay, nobody buys
|
| I’m killing shit like a shotgun in your ass crack
|
| This rap shit, ya’ll can have that
|
| Too much politican man I hate that
|
| And why we got to be scared of ya’ll?
|
| Ya’ll wear skinny jeans
|
| And, nothing wrong with skinny jeans but
|
| We can see that ya’ll AIN’T STRAPPED
|
| Think about it, Whitney Houston I’ma sing about it
|
| New rollie got to take a link up out it
|
| She sext me ain’t get a thing up out it
|
| She sext you and got a ring up out it
|
| Who’s the realer man? |
| Cause you built a fam and I just pulled my pants up and
|
| ran, damn
|
| Don’t be a loser forever, that’s the moral of the story
|
| Don’t fight with your success, don’t quarrel with the glory
|
| You want the house with all the stories, no worries
|
| Just keep a shoulder cold as snow flurries
|
| And take the slow grind, no hurries
|
| Fresh when I bend them corners, flexing got DaVinci on us
|
| Blowing money fast, I think I might put Bleu Davinci on this
|
| Never wore this type of shit, but hey they got the cameras on us
|
| These are Kunta Kinte orders, don’t respond to what they call us
|
| Nigga’s not my name, bitch is not her name either
|
| I was on them bitches back when niggas was just name keepers
|
| Riding in that same Regal, me and Bull, we needed fuel we relied on women we
|
| had pulled, sshh
|
| We was on them back streets, me and Miller, ounces in the backseat
|
| Pray to god I make it home, cause I know that this is not me
|
| The cops be behind us to remind us slaveries not far behind us college isn’t
|
| promised
|
| Prison won’t decline us, they’ll make some room, make some room even if they
|
| gotta take a school
|
| Take a school, take a stool you gon' need it
|
| Have a seat cause what I’m feedin' is the 80's crack boom, you’ll never beat it
|
| Where ya gonna be when you’re 40?
|
| Gonna be on Oprah, gonna be Maury
|
| Gonna have some grandkids tell em all ya stories
|
| Just don’t be a loser, all ya life
|
| I might hit you with that ficky ficky ficky like I’m Missy Elliot
|
| Im rapping like an alien, I give these hoes an alias
|
| They can’t wait to see us sell temperature in celsius
|
| You ain’t get that punchline
|
| Celsius, see us sell, well, sometimes I be stretching it
|
| Sometimes I be wrecking shit too hard don’t get no recompense
|
| The FBI might take this song and use it for evidence
|
| And lock me up for letting you know the truth and it’s evidence
|
| I see money, I see money, greed and evil
|
| I indulge in the achievement of my people
|
| That’s just how I was raised, praise god on Sunday mornings
|
| Tell em I’m done with hoes, next morning I’m right back horny, ooh
|
| Bitches tell me «ooh kill em», I just fall off in that couchie
|
| And I lean, smooth criminal, tryna be too visual, on the hunt for new residual
|
| Tired of make due with minimum DNC’s the new cinema
|
| Where ya gonna be when you’re 40? |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Losers (feat. Bias the Black) , by - Translee. Song from the album Culture Junky, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп