Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Necklace of Heads, artist - Vinnie Paz. Album song The Pain Collector, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 27.09.2018
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: Enemy Soil
Song language: English
Necklace of Heads |
Yo Oh No |
This shit crazy pop |
Aiight, look |
Yeah |
Lick shots like they would do with the fever |
Stab 'em dead or a Pompeii, Julius Caesar |
Knife work nice, show you what to do with a cleaver |
Son munafiqun, he a truthful deceiver |
Supplication on the plains of Arafat |
Puerto Ricans everywhere, they talk to me in Arawak |
Money always ass back, and I’ma pull the barrel back |
Knowing damn well he couldn’t see me like a cataract |
Where the organ grinder partner, tell me where the Tommy at |
And riddle him with bullets in him, move him like an army brat |
Anarchist and Marxist, you listening to Commie rap |
Self-proclaimed God so the fuck if I’ma honor that |
This rat tried to get me book like a library |
My shot unorthodox like Shawn Marion |
Powers of pain, Animal Hawk and barbarian |
You beaten by the fist of God so Paul bury 'em |
One gun, two gun, three gun, four |
It ain’t an adversary that’s ready to go to war |
One gun, two gun, three gun, four |
A hundred round drum and it’ll clear the fuckin' floor |
I told y’all not to fuck with me |
Kidnaps takin' the kids like full custody |
Every rhyme like my first, I spit hungrily |
Y’all don’t know cheese and wine out in Tuscany |
Y’all think having a rack is called luxury |
All bark and no bite, you not touching me |
It’s too dark for you, the wind is too blustering |
I don’t like cops or opps in my company |
The trap boys still cookin' the brick |
And it’s raw so it look like they cookin' the grit |
If I counted every bottle that I took to the dick |
I’d lose count pa, I was in a room full of shit |
You cupcaked out, still bitchin' 'bout a jawn |
End-game talkin' 'bout a bishop verse a pawn |
You dead goin' to sleep, listenin' to birds chirpin' |
The type of asshole to be talkin' in third person |
One gun, two gun, three gun, four |
It ain’t an adversary that’s ready to go to war |
One gun, two gun, three gun, four |
A hundred round drum and it’ll clear the fuckin' floor |
Yeah, yeah |
Pack Pistol Pazzy and all that, the Sicilian Shooter |
Y’nam sayin'? |
Philly in this mahfucker, yeah |
That’s the law |