letra de fatman - dead players
[verse 1 – jam baxter]
tunnel under burning skin and build a yard of boiling blood
i’m pointing up the screaming jets of boiling blubber soiling us
you’re pretty short of choices bruv and down with eight of minor trends
the spiral steps to loserville ignited in a firey breath
so would i leave whilst they wait tumbling
i’m a beast in case you were wondering
just incase your encased in a rumbling earthquake, i bought a spade and a plunger in
but i ain’t gonna dig that deep just to let you man in a bin bag breathe
spread that powder, press that now star
see how far can a big bag reach
to the edge of human reasons spilling down the sides
spit a stream of glue and sick, illusion dripping out my eyes
bring a couple gallons of chiraz and let me drown in wine
master of a crowd of flies, one of many crowns of mine
see the rest, they’re hung from the ceiling
all set for a wondrous evening, leave in a deep blue sea be stranding
move to the bank with somebody’s feeding
each bar leaves somebody grieving, tear duct stains on a bright red floor
more lick of varnish, churned in the carnage
earth in a jar in a hi-tec court
[hook]
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
[verse 2]
eggs and omelettes are like my runnies on this
so who’s been running the longest
you’re gonna need an orthodontist to knock your teeth out
the man who holds beats for hostage
and it’s all out war now, ready for the call out
then i bring the fire to the foreground
to the riddim of the wall now, kick another door down
got ’em on the sh-r- looking worn out
stomp on the beat like i own it, make you wanna jump out your seat now don’t it?
talking about out grown it, blown it, bullet with the wrong components
i ain’t even tryna make words rhyme, got it on repeat now you heard me the first time
bruddas get blurred in the third eye
me? i be chilling on the beach like my birth sign
life line guillotine, refried chilli bean straight from the philippines
broad daylight but it’s still a dream, k!ller fiend dealing with a supreme philistine
chilling in a stretched out limousine, in a scene rolling with the weed and the nicotine
tryna keep it clean but you know the team, in it for the crack like pete from the libertines
shoulda been a dj, cut ’em into pieces, feast on the replay
my lifes not a movie, it’s more like a film where everybody dies like d-day
yeah, yeah i know i probably shouldn’t say that but it beats that usual cliche
so you can rewind the rhyme for the playback but i’m tryna get my leg up foshezay
[hook]
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
[verse 3]
(jam baxter)
look, who fills your head full of conked out pensioners
cobwebs, dentures and monged out replicas
lecherous leaches, crack den regulars, festering flee pits, blood splattered exodus
yeah, guilty as charged
shovelling them in while the waste guys works
i’ll be jamming at the back in the filthiest garms, on a tripped out rifle and same br-ss coutch
what, they’re p-ssed cause i live life lucid
dead off my demons, slip my nooses
cliff dive into a riptide, heart in my windpipe
sparking a king size zootage, what’s it been like since i booted?
now your life plots been diluted and sold for a pence on a back street corner
essential, spitting that midnight music
(dabbla)
choose your weapon, i’m a slice like a ginsu splitting mc’s in a second
when i squeeze it leaves an impression, nothing but (fire!) when i breeze in a session
i be billing up cheese in the dress room, you be counting your p’s on your fingers
i be doing what i need to get the job done, you be fronting on the beat ’bout binges
doors off hinges, foreigners talking in english, usaers coming like ninjas
make it hot for you b-tches, got them in st-tches, can i get a (bup!) and a witness
coming to you live from the trenches, widen your senses
got more column for your inches
(dead players!) all up in your old dears minges but thats not what the ting is
[hook]
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players, players
dead, dead, players
dead, dead, dead, dead, players
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