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letra de pigs - angelo mota

[verse one: angelo mota]

laugh it up, in the house of rap and b-tch i’m tracking dust
crew is deep as cracks and ruts, we filling cars and smacking blunts
you’re young as baby chicks, i’m smashing yolks, they cracking up
blasting folks with heat that make a thug go back to masking up, like
“who the f-ck as bad as us?” sticks and stones we run the block
got the gente mad and casting stones we got to ducking rocks
man, go back to sucking c-… never mind, i’m higher than
petty jokes i’m steady roasting fellas on this ready stove
grow up? i’m already grown, multiply the size of my
appearance you ain’t ready homes, judging by the look up on your face
you gave me sp-ce for thrones, place the crown on motaraps
know what happened, got them raising hands until that shoulder snaps
hot as burning magnesium, is he really a heathen or
is he voicing opinions appealing to all the hedonists? neither
f-ck pleasure i wish i was barely breathing
i’m only a dope emcee that’s in way over his ears again
i’ma blast off when the time’s right, g shock he shock everybody in the limelight
braggadocious plus half morose and i bet everybody wanna rhyme like
me, used to blow me off i got played like
keys, bet i was annoying all the hoes like
please, now when i drop chicks drop to the
knee, never had time to rehe-rs- my

[hook]
de-structive patterns, energy field is saturn
already over earth so the galaxy is my platter
pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs, pigs

[verse two: angelo mota]

quit the soft stepping, ain’t no excuse cause you talk reckless
i’m rummaging through the wreckage of beats right after i wreck em
anita, gimme a second, i’m baking and playing reverend
i’m bacon off of the stove, hearts i break em through text message
if i’m ever a father, karma says i’ll have a daughter but
my aura says i’ll slaughter any of these boys thats making offers
the heisenberg of, rhyming words, i’m drunk as f-ck so these lines are slurred
quit that talk, no time for the t-rd coming out your mouth, k!ll them on the couch
k!ll them on a track, f-ck rapping about
k!ll them with the gas, or the mask, or without
gash in your throat from gl-ss, feel the p-ssion of p-ssing without toe-tags and i’m out
motaraps in the house, thats seven inch deep, stab half in your spouse
90 on the dash might’ve crashed in the jag, man
f-ck dry sh-t this the last of the drought

- angelo mota

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