a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 #

letra de 1990-sick (kill 'em all) - spice 1

[chorus: spice 1]
k!ll em all (4x)
cause everybody dyin on this motherf-ckin album
k!ll em all (4x)
don’t kick up in the dirt when i’m puttin in work
k!ll em all (4x)
cause everybody dyin on this motherf-ckin album

[verse 1: spice 1]
i murda like this (this) i murda like that (that)
pull an ak-47 up out my motherf-ckin gangsta hat
professional columbian necktie, barbwire
strangler, over k!lla, dead f-ckin body hanga
peepin out the window with an a.k., pullin up on these copper
helicoptas, squad cars, swat teams with choppers
they tellin me, “n-gga, get the f-ck out before ya die
if you surrender, we’ll make sure that you quickly fry”
should i kick open the door and go to war
or should i slit my throat
leave a pipe bomb and a f-ck you note
hallucinations of seein lynched bodies burnin
and all the po-po had faces like mark fuhrman
tear gas through my gl-ss window pane
they wanna put me back up in the nut house again
but i’m not goin back and take my prozac
they can keep the straight jacket
and leave a straight motherf-ckin jack
a straight motherf-ckin jack
a straight motherf-ckin jack

[chorus: spice 1]
(get the h-ll off my d-ck, i’m 1990-sick)
(1990-sick) -repeat 4x-

[verse 2: spice 1]
n-gga’s to pull the lynch, yayo case and stick
marcia clark screamin out murda, jumpin on oj’s d-ck
motherf-ckers still sufferin and healin
some high tech knowledga white boys blew up the f-ckin fed buildin
crazy n-ggas still bangin and slangin crack
to the death, when the game put em up on they back
motherf-ckers catchin aids, from shootin hop
and phony n-ggas still get sprayed up on the block
and i ain’t changed much, h-ll
i’m still smokin four or five motherf-ckin choppers before it’s twelve
motherf-ckers think they know me, but they don’t know
i’m sellin first cl-ss tickets to the murda show
don’t wanna rap about no n-gga, let’s get it on
bustin domes, buck shots through your rib bone
so all you n-ggas up in the magazines talkin sh-t
get off my d-ck, i’m 1990-sick

[chorus]

[verse 3: mc eiht]
1990-sick, i grasp my d-ck
the lunatic quick to grab my tech
put slugs up in your neck
compton is the city where i come from
desert eagle packin dum ditty ditty dum
i won’t just smoke you
i be terrifyin horrifyin gyeah i’mma choke you
the k!lla n-ggas on hop
we tear up your spot, eiht, spice, and my f-ckin n-gga pac
don’t cross my path, no cl-ss
i be like sh-t in your motherf-ckin -ss
bullets i spit at you, your hood i slid through
evil n-ggas tryin to get rid of you
no witnesses so don’t ask no questions
flee the scene, one-time’ll be arrestin
k!lla n-ggas don’t play that
it’s compton on no like your dome we stompin
but in that gang affiliation
sh-t goes pop, we won’t stop
uhhh, in 1990-sick

chorus: repeat 2x

(get the h-ll off my d-ck, i’m 1990-sick)
(1990-sick) -repeat 4x-

- spice 1

letras aleatórias

MAIS ACESSADOS