Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song The Steiners, artist - Westside Gunn. Date of issue: 21.06.2018
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
The Steiners |
| El don’t hold punches, this that flying fists of fury |
| You wish I had no leg to stand on with no podiatrist to cure me |
| My life was like Eggs Benedict, crème brûlée to slam today |
| Tomorrow’s lobster macaroni, clam souffle and |
| Those truly wack, who swear they got the crown get their rubies jacked |
| My dogs’ll smack you up like a Scooby Snack |
| He face major or minimum slaughter |
| I wouldn’t hold my breath swimming in water |
| Wanna stay winning more than women wants a feminine daughter |
| Or men who wants a masculine son |
| To teach how to shoot baskets and guns for fun |
| You in the presence of a Jedi, gypsy read my palm and said |
| I’d make it past the age that most thought that I’d be dead by |
| That’s one year shy of the GOAT, born out in Bedstuy |
| And years after these artists overdosing off a med high |
| Ruined your dance, spoil your whole night, what’s in my loose leaf |
| Is hitting hard like it was rolled tight, something you shouldn’t take light |
| Different from what the fake write, similar to a snake bite |
| You rather me slow up and see my brake lights, then make flights |
| From Detroit to Buffalo, puffing 'dro |
| You in bad shape like my toughest fro |
| I’m well rounded like David Ruffin’s fro |
| Cuffing your main squeeze before my plane leave |
| I’m so cold, she slurp me up and catch a brain freeze |
| Then I stroke and smack it in a smokin' jacket |
| Oakland macking on some Coke and Yak shit |
| Boom boom boom boom boom |
| Ayo, .45 shells popping out, straight drilling shit |
| Lagerfield rocking head to toe, in the lemon six |
| PJ spilling, still a fish in the Fisker (skr) |
| Dragged it through SoHo, right in front of Kith (boom boom boom) |
| Reminiscing in my cell, I used to have the block clicking |
| Duffle bag full of hollow points was the mission (ah) |
| Ran up on him at his momma’s house, gave him the business (boom boom boom boom |
| boom) |
| He tried to give me 30 counterfeit for a chicken |
| No, no, no, no, three quarters Balenciagas |
| These never dropping, don’t even bother |
| Tied gloves on the chopper, Stone Island fishing |
| Then jump off brick, what I call a thousand dollar lineups |
| Chill, I done sold bricks for real |
| I took a pay cut when I signed my deal |
| This for the culture, you wouldn’t understand my sculpture |
| Uh, this feeling is torture, I’m ultra |
| Rhyming well, Blientele |
| Before I rat, I’d rather fry in Hell |
| What you know about laundry bags filled with mail |
| 20 stamps’ll make you a book |
| You never ran the phone, you niggas was shook |
| You never ran the phone, you niggas was shook |