lirik lagu horseshoe g.a.n.g - click pow
[chorus: demetrius capone]
cl!ck pow, n-ggas hit the ground
we finna murder the game we spit the sickest style
d-ckin’ strippers, cl!ckin’ triggers the sickest n-ggas out
so tell the industry now we finna end the drought, so bow, down
n-gga bow, ya favorite rapper is lame, we finna sit him down
we came to sn-tch up this game, we finna stick around
we aimin’ raps at ya brain, we finna spit a round, so bow, down
[verse 1: julius luciano]
uh oh, somebody done p-ssed the grim reaper off
for every emcee that diss me, i’m, diggin’ ya ditch deeper
y’all convinced me that y’all actors, y’all rappers
made up of all chatter, ya six feet of talk
i lay ya down; you’re surrounded in six feet of chalk
i ain’t sh-t-talkin’, i’m sh-t-speakin’
why you pr-cks think it’s called, monologue?
you got it y’all? yeah you pr-cks thinkin’, are
what gives me the gall
you see i paid the fee to be a big g and boss
i got the receipt, you don’t know how much this sh-t even costs
see never will i receive a loss, cause i’m comin’ after meals
like dessert but ain’t sh-t sweet or soft
f-ck a fever or a mere sneeze or cough;
i’m a sick motherf-cker, like i got imbreedin’ thoughts
you wouldn’t be the best hands down if you cut ya d-ck beaters off
all that poppin’ sh-t, n-gga halt!
[verse 2: demetrius capone]
you can try: robbin’ my ice, robbin’ my shine
my shine: is robbin’ ya sight, is robbin’ you blind
now that’s what i call a opposite crime
i’m half man, half machine; i’m optimus and ‘pac in his prime
spittin’ sick and optimistic, that mean i spit, hiv positive rhymes,
is he, out of his mind? i think, i police, the police, c-ckin’ the nine
i son the ones — i’m the father of time…
my n-ggas is strictly the mafia
stickin’ a glock in ya mouth, as if it’s a thermometer
on a mission to try to f-ck cubana l-st
tryna get her to swallow nut, ’til that thick b-tch is spittin’ my daughter up
ya b-tch is blowin’ my d-ck like it’s a harmonica
i’m gettin’ lewinsky’d like her moniker is monica
she’s fond of my anaconda i honor her
if n-ggas is trippin’ i blam they yarmulke — cancel hanukkah!
[chorus: demetrius capone]
cl!ck pow, n-ggas hit the ground
we finna murder the game we spit the sickest style
d-ckin’ strippers, cl!ckin’ triggers the sickest n-ggas out
so tell the industry now we finna end the drought, so bow, down
n-gga bow, ya favorite rapper is lame, we finna sit him down
we came to sn-tch up this game, we finna stick around
we aimin’ raps at ya brain, we finna spit a round, so bow, down
[verse 3: andrew “dice” dinero]
if y’all don’t know i’m the sh-ts when i spit
you pr-cks, got me f-cked up, like plenty henny sips
you’re not that bright like a bulb that’s dimly lit
i’m skitz, yeah i’m mad as if i’m pretty p-ssed!
but get me p-ssed, and i’m spillin’ clips w-lly-nilly
let my milli really split some melons and so many bics
put many clips of dark in your vision like an eclipse
y’all in perfect health, meanin’ you n-ggas ain’t really sick!
this is toxic spit, this is napalm talk
i don’t mean i’m leavin’ when i say “i’m off!”
n-gga i stay on my grind, i can’t nod off
i take ya watch off ya wrist, that’s how i take time off…
y’all want beef? y’all actin’; y’all hoes vegans
i say ‘come back’ to you cats still i’m crackin’ ya whole t–th in
collapsin’ ya dome piece in, don’t snooze with tools on me
move on me and lose homies mu’f-cka!
[verse 4: kenny siegel]
yeah, n-gga ya rhymin’ is ’bout as bad as my bottom b-tch
my rhymin’ is so on time that a pr-ck could set his watch to it
i promise this: i got a ditch i dump bodies inside of it
my goal is to fill it to the top even though it’s bottomless…
y’all small time, fightin’ for block domination
while c.o.b.’s tryna lock the nation
that’s cause we colder than ganja blazin’, definin’ greatness
we as cold as a lock combination
i gives these dudes headaches, i’m more so a concussion
i’m drunk in the booth, just like my tool i’m loaded and bussin’
my flow is disgustin’ don’t sleep on me when you hold a discussion
you n-ggas wouldn’t be close to me if our shoulders was touchin’
no f-ckin’ around, c.o.b. is that cold unit
you at a stand-still cause you have no movement
yeah, this the f-ckin’ u-gang papi
i’m the black saddam who’s-sane? not me!
[chorus: demetrius capone]
cl!ck pow, n-ggas hit the ground
we finna murder the game we spit the sickest style
d-ckin’ strippers, cl!ckin’ triggers the sickest n-ggas out
so tell the industry now we finna end the drought, so bow, down
n-gga bow, ya favorite rapper is lame, we finna sit him down
we came to sn-tch up this game, we finna stick around
we aimin’ raps at ya brain, we finna spit a round, so bow, down
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