Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Thirsty Fish , by - WisemenRelease date: 29.03.2021
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Thirsty Fish |
| Yeah |
| Kevlaar on the beat |
| Yeah |
| Yo, I’ma let it soak in like some good soup on these niggas for a minute, man |
| Uh-Huh |
| You know what it is. |
| It’s Sparky Anderson in the building, baby. |
| (Gimme that one more time!) |
| Yeah |
| Let it float, like a white owl above your senses, man |
| (Blow out your senses with that while owl, baby!) |
| Aight |
| Yo, my soul’ll glisten |
| Jackie Joyner flow, driftin' |
| Mo' shit than a pigeon |
| Buddha make em' television |
| Blu-Ray precision |
| Blowin rods out ya engine |
| Not to mention |
| My enrichment make powder glow |
| Long arm pro |
| One novel split your avocado |
| Green cap, penny top rap |
| Cat-walk a model |
| Tyra Banks, Queen Sheba meet her — swallow liters |
| Crawl across burning desert, Mount St. Helen fever |
| Toast with a blunt, call me golden retriever |
| Green paper on tap like oxygen, two hydrogen pieces |
| This be my nitro glycerin thesis |
| Or it’s duct tape, white doves and death to the speaker |
| Find my luck late white gloves mix O.J. |
| with ether |
| See the dope game? |
| It’s the same, it’s or, or either |
| Now my waist got burns the size of 9 millimeter |
| I treat her how I treat her, Liter after liter |
| Smoke cedar after cedar, still breathalyze cleaner |
| Than a 12-Step leader |
| Bronzeman on the stand, never turn a Tina |
| Or parakeeter |
| Right hand on the heater, knowin' I barely teeter |
| 'lute get it poppin like bottles |
| Fly chicks and models |
| El Dorados with the top tilt off |
| Far from soft |
| From Diggstown to a loft |
| Real brick nigga, workers lookin' up to the boss |
| Weight movers, ease thru scope-like view |
| Style rugby, no pads, run through ya crew |
| The shit I do, unexplainable |
| Liver than most |
| For the bread? |
| Meet his forehead with the toast |
| Full fledged, off the ledge |
| Live life on the edge |
| No comparisons, fuck what you see on the tube |
| They don’t play us on the radio, so fuck them too |
| Hardcore, reward point blank range |
| On that hurricane tip, fuck making it rain |
| Storm defiant, skinny nigga knockin' out giants |
| Killa season, presidential status to clients |
| Rise above tide, seat back enjoyin' the ride |
| We employers of the corners, it’s the cowards that hide |
| Hold my own weight, rocked out buck-65 |
| Ask about me in my gritty city, 'lute get live! |
| Eyes low, cause I stay high |
| Far from average |
| Street Fighter, E. Honda concrete savage |
| It’s a wrap kid, ya’ll figures stuck in a drought |
| Known for X-ing niggas out, like my first name Malc' |
| What I’m about, nigga |
| Call me Prince Charles |
| My mother stay rocked up and glocked up |
| Rockin' a gun umbrella, size 8 Clarks |
| Love the game, sweet sneakers and speakers |
| Fly white beaches, pour shots |
| Mister, it’s all rocks |
| That’s me, new flamer |
| Double XL jag |
| Baby blue nozzles, xeon Nina |
| Shoot like the new and improved |
| Military regime rap |
| Magazines jump off clean racks |
| Wipe out the spouse, bag up |
| Welcome to The House of Flying Daggers, where niggas get grabbed up |
| Snatched like the actress, act up |
| The van with the old man drivin' wit' the hammer, that’s Black Putt |
| Slut niggas go up in ya bitch butt |
| Owe that money, we comin' at ya ass like, «Wassup?» |
| You gon' die, nigga you won’t lie |
| I figured I could help you |
| My homie, you wan' ride? |