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

Geluid


Koppel


Moeilijkheidsgraad


Accent



interfacetaal

nl

Lyrkit YouTube Lyrkit Instagram Lyrkit Facebook
Cookie beleid   |   Steun   |   FAQ
1
registreren / inloggen
Lyrkit

doneren

5$

Lyrkit

doneren

10$

Lyrkit

doneren

20$

Lyrkit

En/of steun mij op sociaal gebied. netwerken:


Lyrkit YouTube Lyrkit Instagram Lyrkit Facebook
Cage

Holdin A Jar 2

 

Holdin A Jar 2

(album: The Best And Worst Of Cage - 2008)


My intelligence is money
My skin is the streets of New York
My arms and legs are it's fucked up bridges
The subways are the worms that come through my corpse
Liberty, my bitch, fucking everyone
They cut my two middle fingers down but my dick is still standing

I walked into Nasa, my pocket full of envelopes
And this chick swinging from my dick is into dope
Like hi-jackin with no planes, it's harmless
Way to shermed out to kick your fucking skull into your armpits
Can't find a dime, what's the worst that could happen
Cage got a knick for 8 millimeter action
No family man, even my daughter earning chasing after me with a fucking handy cam
Flippin while I'm holdin a jar, tell me if I'm going too far
Turn around I left some coke in the bar
Can't waste the range premise on this FBI-secretary with tits unless she's a menace
See the liquid kids and streams of five on her
This is the minds blotter, paper-savior dipped in high blotter
And I'm more patriotic with the narcotic wrapped in the little flag in the back [?]

I ain't tryna train the sane, I'm playing the game
Like numbers scratched off a gun, they change your name
Chase the past and get the violence to spread
Got my arms in the dirt tryna silence the dead

Even when you win you lose in the end
So I take acid out of my back and use it again
Excuse me brother, why tap your spinal cord?
While open-mic emcees waste vinyl cords
[?] for skin, your flesh is born from it
Empty the clip in your Toyota GS400
If you're too old to hustle, put the gun down, uncle
That's a nice vest with your head hangin from it's last muscle
Go cop the album, keep me alive
And my functioning creative compartment will be downsized
Beyond demise, it's high maintenence
Looking for drugs with my hands crawling with agents
Biological, with the hands on my nostril
Can't get a vaccine with half the city in a hospital
All these doom-leaders, and their spoon-feeders
Can take the young, and let them lose leaders

I ain't tryna train the sane, I'm playing the game
Like numbers scratched off a gun they change your name
Chase the past and get the violence to spread
Got my arms in the dirt tryna silence the dead

klaar

Heb je alle onbekende woorden uit dit nummer toegevoegd?