Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Windpipe, artist - Wu-Tang Clan.
Date of issue: 02.11.1998
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Windpipe |
Yo Yo Yo doodododododo Yo pssh yo |
Yo park the Jeep on the street of the Sunset Marquis |
Autograph sign and pass wit a gold tip Sharpie |
Permanent ink blots, I’m drunk on Red Label scotch |
While you faggots try to judge my shit like Ed Koch |
Underground left and right pan surround sound can’t re-scan |
Be the hands, video tape, Steadicam |
Golden chrome, desert eagle never left at home |
To the track or the beat, watch Bobby flip the metronome |
High voltage, keep my seed and Wiz well-cultured |
Kill enemies by mailing them the poison through postage |
I open and fold ya, Dirty fucked a ogre |
I’ll leave the cats that book of food stamps, they make cold cuts |
Then buy some Equal, a fifty-sack of that lethal |
Adjust these boots and bloody cube steaks from Key Food |
What party can you go to |
And I ain’t there you bitches actin like you don’t care |
You bitches actin' like you don’t care |
You bitches actin' like you, YO |
Razor blade toenails cut holes inside tube socks |
Gold n' platinum fangs unstainable, I chew rocks |
Cybertech digital suit, deflect bullets |
Black hooded, surrounded by forty acres of wooded |
Land, like my cousin dusty dirty ass Dan |
Fucked the daughter of the leader of the Ku Klux Klan |
Tapes we dub, pound you wit the ace of club |
Clobber your tree to a shrub |
Tongue kiss a lion then kidnap her cub |
Passionate portrait, my bitch spread eagle, wild orchid |
Pussy so wet you could fuck it wit' a soft tipped dick |
Tickled her tonsil, you could hear her coughin' |
I don’t know if Dirt fucked Mariah, but I’m out to fuck Tyra |
Starks might fuck Mya |
I’m the pussy vampire |
I don’t wanna work no more |
I want my own island |
Yo I’m bent out three days two nights yo I’m spent out |
One hell of a cruise New York got they hand out |
Like I owe somethin, check they stance they frontin |
I’m two seconds from twistin y’all shit over nuttin |
All a sudden ice grills kid you did a baby bid |
In the mix, almost hung yourself, slit ya wrists |
To the maximum, hand me the forty I’ll thrash 'em |
Split out, guess who gassed 'em, made Ghost throw his mask on |
Trauma the block pro, bar sledge slang ho |
Runnin from two assaults, in rap and I might blow |
World Cup, some been blessed wit the Stanley |
Ivan Lendl lend you autographed racket wit the hankey |
Sideline manuever, polished wack MC remover |
Niggas wit long nails cuttin me, leavin bruises |
Cantelopes, tied a thousand on y’all folks |
Came home, this dusthead dude tryin to play me close |
Sweepin, peep fears, Liz wants to chop in this kid |
I might do magic make him disappear |
Railroad that nigga, Isotola Coca-Cola holder |
Snap the granola, sprinkle ginko bola |
Venom from a cobra, laced in the cummy ball odor |
Soaked through a strainer, here’s a dose of |
The King James version, displayed just like Samsung |
Wit effects that’ll kill Rogers 007 |
Hanna Barbera, heart’s the opposite of Bambi the deer |
Fuck wit mics like Sonny and Cher |
Or maybe the Captain & Tennille, immaculate golden seal |
Nice like Mr. Whittendale your girl Chippendale |
Shallah Price all up in ya dogged-out trench |
When I snatched that, shit was broke shoulda sent ya ass back |
And where’s the key to the hatchback, pop that |
Get in throw a bag full of mic’s in there, respect that |
What party can you go to, and Wu ain’t there |
These niggas actin like they don’t care |
What party can you go to, and Wu ain’t there |
These hoes actin like they don’t care |