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lirik lagu vic spencer & sonnyjim - husky contractor bags

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[verse 1: d.brash]
i arrive by parachute, smoking passionfruit (oh sh~t)
been nice since poor righteous teachers (uh huh)
brass k!lled you with the meat cleaver (oh sh~t)
smash ya’ head against the bleachers (uh huh), i ain’t f~cking up the sneakers
flee the scene, still a co~pilot (uh huh), f~ck you mean
the tortured king (d~mn), i get them answers, they come clean (come clean)
mechanic suit, magnetic gloves, f~ck that rich n~gga
yeah, i’m comin’ for my b~tch n~gga
i escape to a room full of smoke, intense
you probably choke, adios, no shine skips, that bud miffed
i’m sick of this, sonnyjim in the dojo, i’m iron fists (uh huh)
[?]
plantera, shogun chambers with a thousand mirrors
the vision became clearer (oh sh~t)
light the hemp rap
only reserved for the main camp
f~cker

[verse 2: verbal kent]
listen
medium rare steaks
margaritas for two for one
middle finger up, point it in the mans face
you can trust me with your life, you could trust me with your wife
but if you cross me, throw your family down a staircase
i’m not who you think, i’ll put you in ya place
run ya’ mouth, i will be proud to punch you in ya’ face
sick of soft rappers gettin’ passes
gettin past us, gettin’ old, from this point on, no one’s gettin’ past us
i seen you with the thickest glasses
you just watch from afar and study our bars so muchas gracias
went from movin’ bricks to movin’ crowds (yeah)
from moving crowns to business
some wear many hats, for me it’s many crowns (yeah)
the king in the ring
bulbs lighting up with thinking of things
it’s horrible, you stinking, it stings
powerful stuff, rock mics like dwight howard the dunk
i save the world like i’m howard the duck
what
[verse 3: vic spencer]
i don’t f~ck with h~lla rappers, man (nah)
i even f~ckin’ smack they fans
keep going, i’ll smack they friends (mm)
i don’t really have time to pretend that i love rappers that i’m above
see me all day, gone with a buzz
i can’t be a rapper out here and busting the suds (nah)
name 300 rappers ain’t f~cking with us
i don’t introduce myself, still touching the b~tt after massaging me
these rappers lie to the blogs, you’ll be the only n~gga that lose his eyes in the fog
i’m at the smokehouse, orderin’ steak, flourished and baked
shouts to the weed man who don’t sell shake
give thanks to the most high, i’m close by the finish line that these rappers out here tryna climb (ah)
still not dehydrated (nah)
i’m the old generation’s favorite (sheesh)
i don’t need n~ggas to slay sh~t


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