Your native language

عربي

Arabic

عربي

简体中文

Chinese

简体中文

Nederlands

Dutch

Nederlands

Français

French

Français

Deutsch

German

Deutsch

Italiano

Italian

Italiano

日本語

Japanese

日本語

한국인

Korean

한국인

Polski

Polish

Polski

Português

Portuguese

Português

Română

Romanian

Română

Русский

Russian

Русский

Español

Spanish

Español

Türk

Turkish

Türk

Українська

Ukrainian

Українська
User Avatar

Suono


Interfaccia


Livello di difficoltà


Accento



linguaggio dell'interfaccia

it

Lyrkit YouTube Lyrkit Instagram Lyrkit Facebook
Gestione dei Cookie   |   Supporto   |   FAQ
1
registrati/accedi
Lyrkit

donare

5$

Lyrkit

donare

10$

Lyrkit

donare

20$

Lyrkit

E/o supportarmi sui social. reti:


Lyrkit YouTube Lyrkit Instagram Lyrkit Facebook
$ilkMoney

White People Don't Clean Their Chicken

 

White People Don't Clean Their Chicken

(album: Attack Of The Future Shocked, Flesh Covered, Meatbags Of The 85 - 2020)


Nigga, I'm not Chuck D (D), because I say nigga and love to do it
Wrap me in ligero leaves and chuck me in an Egyptian ruin
Knock the nose off you niggas face like Alexander the Great did the Sphinx
Get hit with a hundred and eighty-two shots before you blink
Couldn't wash my sins away like dinner plates or food scraped in the sink
But I bet this dinner plate that glimmer hit a goal just as great with this mink
I assimilate what you negate, then facilitate what you need
And demonstrate with a kitchen blade, sell my toasters with ease
Split it in half while you niggas dismiss the math
And just hit the dab, displaying true knowledge
Instilled in my mental bag with this gift of gab
Sick and sad I have to dumb my message down with fictitious mash
You niggas trash, tryna maintain a image and fit a fad
You cows ain't real butter, nah, you bitches some shared spread
Conk his wig with this egg and leave him flipped with a red head
I ain't know a concurrent missile, I hung myself with the bed thread
When life gives you lemons, you could clean chicken with it or shed pledge
Sell my soul just to cut a throne and have riches untold
Confess my roles and beat my dick in a coffin like skull and bones
Holster made from the lizard skin of the one percent of the globe
And the pistol that fit in it made from the precious metals they stole (Metals they stole)
I'm on some other shit, baby, some other shit
And I'm still waiting on the government to dispense them Harriet Tubmans
Money won't heal my wounds, but it's calamine, I'mma rub it in
Until they seal my tomb I'm going Columbine with the rubber trench

Fatto

Hai aggiunto tutte le parole sconosciute di questa canzone?