Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Mean Mug Muzik, artist - Vakill. Album song Armor of God, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 13.06.2011
Record label: Molemen
Song language: English
Mean Mug Muzik |
| Yeah |
| Yeah |
| Yeah |
| Mean Mug Muzik |
| It’s that new Chicago gangsta |
| That old shit is out |
| That new shit |
| Say hello to the future, bitches |
| (It's that What-the-fuck-you-lookin-at music) |
| Welcome to Chicago where beef is realer |
| Where in hairy situations we brush with death and comb the streets for scrilla |
| It’s a cold world when niggas drawin heat can kill us |
| The illest of breeds willin to make you bleed to feel us |
| A animal on his corporate grizzly |
| Spit divine as Corpus Christi |
| Flow in hellfire till your corpse is cripsy |
| Threats became visual |
| Clappin at the face of Red Kerr-ass niggas like Jordan’s pre-game ritual |
| Here’s a sicker dosage, keep your triggers focused |
| Keep the nigga closest, from the inside out like trichinosis |
| It’s Hood Deal Or No Deal, we face obstacles |
| Tryina get paper, avoid the biggest cases possible |
| Now I ain’t even tryin, I just ran off and scribbled |
| I’m Hail Mary in a stand-off or handoff the middle |
| Since my hands often brittle |
| Every strap I put a extra body on it like a (?) it’s man off the dribble |
| Then after my conquest expect the extortion |
| That’s the best shit next to endorsements |
| Wave Tecs for enforcements |
| So fuck yo high tolerance for pain, you bitches better be born with extra |
| endorphins |
| I’m the son of the soil |
| I rep the Chi |
| From 11−9 to the crumbled buildings of Cabrini hard |
| Acknowledge the demi god |
| You a pussy, pubic bikini job |
| Opposite end of the blade of Sweeny Todd |
| Since my ejaculation fate was automatic profit and fortune |
| Why the fuck (?) catastrophic proportions |
| Leave bodies severed and the sockets contortioned |
| This is barrel in your mouth, pad his pocket extortion |
| Name your favorite spitters |
| I orchestrate assassination |
| Unmask your Jason’s 16-bar fascination |
| I’m Fantastic Four with the flow |
| Rock Fire shit Unseen by any Stretch of your imagination |
| If you niggas ain’t bitchin over statue placement |
| Then it’s southern over-saturation or Hova’s maturation |
| My saliva and venom from a cobra’s (?) |
| Fuck your gratulations, I take scrilla over adulation |
| This is sick cinema converted to canvas |
| Workin a vaginal with 16 cervical cancers |
| With no medicinal or surgical answers |
| 50−40 foot vertical stances, leaps and bounds ahead of y’all |
| Impervious bars, hit the ass on the curviest broads |
| Well gangsta, you know the sturdiest odds |
| Spit scurviest (?), bitch, my only opponent worthy is God |
| Even then I’ll topsy-turvy them odds |
| Get it gone or get it mashed in excessively |
| I wear your fuckin skull as a fashion accessory |
| Fag, eat a dick veiny, Dick Cheney |
| Till it bust on you like a hunting accident — he’s kinda sick, ain’t he? |