Lyrics War Drums - Quakers, Phat Kat, Guilty Simpson

War Drums

No need to ring my phone if you ain’t got nothing for me
My fans told me Kat you been chilling enough
Now it’s time to come and crush 'em with the rugged and rough
Dirty coach yeah I see you, wouldn’t wanna be you
Smoke more weed than the nigga Wiz Khalifa
Catch me backstage setting off smoke detectors
Designer ganja collector, marijuana professor
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some shit my man called God’s Vagina
Soon as he fired up you never smelt nothing finer
Was that your hottest man, send him over, I wanna meet him
What he said, I couldn’t believe him
Had to fry him, fricassee him
Little broke ass nigga still working for per diem
My niggas stay grinding from the AM to the PM
Get caught at end of the barrel, you wouldn’t want to be him
Fucking with some gladiators in the Coliseum
I’m colder than a billionaire’s shoulders
You put stock in him, these slugs are shareholders
I’m working on my temper, don’t tempt me fool
I make 'em swan dive from balconies in empty pools
My flavor ride for the faculty, empty tools
Super soak 'em til shit get fool from the heat
Oxymoron, vegetables from the beef
Try saying that slick shit without teeth
I do the shit the average motherfucker won’t do
And say the shit the average emcee can’t fuck with
You’re stupid if you thinking that that bitch want you
With me she get lucky, with you she get stuck with
We playing with big budgets
Spit muskets, hit harder than Dick Butkus
You sneak out restaurants running out on your bill
While I’m really 'bout to ante on that house on the hill, ill