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letra de poutine - ghettosocks

[intro: -sample-]
“get me some f-cking poutine”

[refrain: -ghettosocks samples-]
“boo please i’m begging for poutine”
“whose st–ze melts a track oh so gooey?”
“count- count sockula”
“look, i’m not joking around” “my hoodie on and said i’m out for treats”
“boo please i’m begging for poutine pou- pou-pou-pou-poutine”
“look, i’m not joking around” “whose- whose-whose st–ze melts a track oh so gooey?”

[verse 1: ghettosocks]
it’s the prince of poutine, count sockula, nosferatu
hitting chip wagons while you chickens pop a capsule
cap the god, what the f-ck’ll that do?
i’ll leave you teary like the fresh prince when he bought his pops a statue
forest scavenger, force alone’ll floor your manager
formulated a plan to tore the planet up but
i’m at the ranch with a h-rny amateur, getting rode reverse cowgirl, listening to boards of canada
i tour to panama, for the t-shirt
always been the type to ask questions last skeet first
trolling out on ebay, won myself a threeway
me kreayshawn and a bichon frise, huh
and y’all ain’t doing sh-t like it’s shomer shabbos
i’m ’bout to get dough nuts like homer’s habit
out for treats was a selfish cause
but, i rep the crown and jewel of la belle province
dig it

[chorus: ghettosocks]
ain’t a new thing, peep how we do things
we keep stepping in kicks, marked 23
stinkfacing djs dropping juicy
in the club posting it up, with a poutine
ain’t a new thing, peep how we do things
we keep stepping in kicks, marked 23
stinkfacing djs dropping juicy
in the club posting it up, with a poutine

[verse 2: loe pesci]
have a ball with like four to five b-tches
quebec bag glorified mordecai richlers
quarterbagging cotton in the court of malt liquor
f-ck a fortified liver, get immortalized quicker
i’m borderline twisted off the orange-lime sizzurp
f-ck a super molly, you could pop a porcupine with it
think it’s all gravy on the corner when the grease burst
hear the wheels squeak like t–th just hit a cheese curd
back we do not pedal, stay holey my socks ghetto
always do my vocals high, that is not a falsetto
when the big man come home, of course the party over
even the playing field, kick ya’ porta-potty over
the drunk bugatti owner, when the beast ’round
always hold my homie close, i’m known to hold them keys down
trained jazz pianist, straight bran van’ing
drinking in la, now that ain’t bad planning

[verse 3: full course]
i, won’t, give up ’cause heaven’s watching, who, is gonna judge me?
originals are rare in the era of carbon copy
kids are running scared, unaware, of what is coming went from popping beat to popping tags to popping mollies
it’s true like [?] no lament to my goons
i had to disconnect my phone so they would leave me alone
just down the road and got lost outta sight
but was told keep trucking like i’m optimus prime
if he died, be like rodimus, how is it, possible to not adjust
to the underhanded curds being [?], i was not impressed
if anybody dares to bean me when i’m up to bat
they’ll see turn my back on world peace like ron artest
i lay you out with ease, formatted
lay you out in front of ya’ house, doormat’ed
see me, i’m current and currently, you’re static
soon to be on top of this game, in your attic
till then

- ghettosocks

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