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letra de vagabondz - training season

[intro: gp x king caexar]
gp:
ayo, ayo
this that shit that make you wanna grab a motherfucker by his neck and hold him against the wall and say
“where the fuck your money at nigga?”
this that shit that make you wanna
punch an old lady in the face
this that shit that make you wanna kick a fucking kitten
nigga, yeah i said kick a fucking kitten nigga…

king caexar:
cl-ssic shit….uh it’s that cl-ssic shit
yo kouga clan and shit…
check it out…uh

[verse 1: king caexar]
fact is you couldn’t catch a flow on river rapids
capsized without a boat row, and no life jackets leave an adversary punk’d like kutcher prank targets
like a butcher in the market place wrapping is a habit
practice on the sabbath, master the art of stabbing niggas sharper than desert cactus, actors can catch the hatchet
caexar burn a hard body quicker than lactic acid
so the way i see it, spitting heat is only pragmatic (uh)
so keep a musket, bullets i got an octet
limbs are torn separate, like -ssorted bar magnets
invading radio ahead of my time
like a nigga forgot to wind the dial back
on the casio clock design

[hook: gp]
it’s that cynical shit, lyrical grit lure with beautiful spit
darker than the trench of ocean basin pit
stronger than the stench of liquid from the cup that satan sip (oh!)

[verse 2: king caexar]
and niggas try please harlots
with quartz karats carved by duddy kravitz
betty bops consume crystal rock like crack addicts
niggas empty bank vaults to feed they bad habits
men rarely succeed to achieve american dreams
and happiness they never have it
sit and glean over obscene bunny rabbit magazine
deluxe keep it golden gringotts and purely candid
serving niggas like teen match-ups with ascots
swinging tennis rackets dealing out bars
and trap menace with hammered mallets
plenty conflict when niggas discover empty wallets
bury the hatchet so, never sweep beneath the carpets
ethics forgotten so souls are rotten
like carc-ss sitting inside the coffin
devoured by the maggots, empowered by the m-sses
flow stretch longer than b-tches up in yoga cl-sses
soda wine gl-sses, sorta like mol-sses
chance doors open like fat -ss when gas p-sses

[hook: gp]
it’s that cynical shit, lyrical grit lure with beautiful spit
darker than the trench of ocean basin pit
stronger than the stench of liquid from the cup that satan sip (oh!)

[verse 3: king caexar]
by now a nigga expects to catch the tempest
on the hook like fish that collects in b-ss basket, cuz i be putting that nigga on everything like frank sauce packet
like the mechanic with the tool box
he’s dealing with the ratchet
working hard until my heart stops so
tonight i just might sleep in casket
like that orphan without an -sset son, he’s probably a b-st-rd
rum in cabinet, get niggas to elaborate
on the gossip stuck up in they palate
call em brasco they prolly parrot, fake, rocking masks like zorro swinging rapier from a fucking chariot
flows i push like empty carts by hobos on the salvage
call me geronimo son, i fight to stay a savage
your weak is my advantage, anarchy and carnage
bodies dropped like fetuses up in a miscarriage
one with the holy place, on tracks he rapes
like dude that lace drinks, offering b-tches a taste

[hook: gp]
it’s that cynical shit, lyrical grit lure with beautiful spit
darker than the trench of ocean basin pit
stronger than the stench of liquid from the cup that satan sip (oh!)

[outro: gp]
that’s what i like…that’s…that’s…what the fuck happened to the fucking beat man?
i was really b-mping that shit man…fuck man

- training season

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