Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Ill Figures, artist - Kook G RapDate of issue: 29.06.2009
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Ill Figures |
| I want people to be able to understand |
| Yo, anybody can rhyme, you know what I’m saying |
| But it’s what you saying that makes a person know about you |
| Know what I’m saying, you know the type of person you is |
| So it’s like really I’m just more of just |
| Being a street narrator, aiyo, what up, famo? |
| Reefer lit, love hip hop, the gangstas got me like the broccoli |
| Brooklyn baby cooling at a swat meet |
| Real niggas wanna meet me, ladies wanna eat me |
| Money clean Mercedes claim, baby beat me |
| Love getting dressed up, sweats and techs |
| Ride around the hood, good, getting Gotti respect |
| Hand is golden, an OG rolling and holding, yo |
| Fresh kicks, soft leather, pockets is swollen |
| Let my jam hit your tape deck, it’s straight up and made up |
| For every real nigga with his gun on him, hate up |
| Flying through the city nights, new flights |
| Blue ice, hundred thousand in a Nike bag, license |
| Drug shop, I’m sorry, Atari in the Ferrari |
| Next see the Lex A Shallah, La Tampa |
| Eating yo, all of us, scamma gangstas |
| You know we honor, tip the kangol, cooling in the brown vengos |
| I have never, giving up on a mission |
| That’s against my honor |
| Duke, let me warn you, my niggas crip up |
| Them young boys’ll run up on you, shoot your whip up |
| Brooklyn, nigga, beg for you life and my Staten Island homeys |
| Lay your ass down on 'Glaciers of Ice' |
| Sidewalk executives, live the street life consecutive |
| We built for this, go for your gun |
| My prospective is, another day in the life, of money and drugs |
| Big hammers and slugs can get ugly as fuck |
| From the chest to your man Danze |
| Staten Island, said what up, yo |
| The homey ODB said what up, though |
| We got the Chef on deck as if you didn’t know |
| It’s sharp as fuck, Wu, that’s what up |
| Pack it up, wanna rap, wanna rock, what up? |
| Wanna pop, get up, fuck around and get your block hit up |
| Bring your team and we’ll box 'em up, think MOP is not what up |
| It seems I’m a bit late here |
| Don’t worry, these men are all gonna die |
| See from the side where it slum at, dum at, rum at |
| Cognac, combat, contact, contrast |
| Crom’s packing out like Beyonce back |
| She bang out a song like the Fonz back |
| Bigger things, bring the slangs, slicker than the sharpest pen |
| Nigga here, combat, sweet dick Willie T, Rudy Ray Moore game |
| Woodgrain all in the board reigns, before rain flooded |
| Like storm drains, boss man, bundling raw 'caine |
| Fours bang, neighborhood war games |
| Get your weight up, you looking anorexic |
| Posted on the block proper with the hammer vested |
| Bitch came with empty hands, that’s the hand she left with |
| Thirsty ass with the water and it sounded desperate |
| Break a white an hour, based it forty grand invested |
| Live within the third rail, you know the man electric |
| Shit was like the third world until I handle metrics, that next shit |