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edition of 500
grandiose shit talking.
I reach heights like satellites spaced like Pluto, still pushin weight like a Japanese sumo
Honda accord Euro,transport the pseudo,we everywhere outchea,fuck where ya crew go,we número uno,if you ask me,top mc's in NZ,ARB,and I'm W To the Es from BDs,designing fly rhymes is the easiest,my click too live two guns up in the sky storm the beehive put a bullet between John ke ys eyes,trust me,most of u rap cats disgust me,while Ya girls drink coffee and discuss me,I'm in the kitchen mixin ,so i proceed to sippin,nibbling karage chicken listening to it was written,gotta fresh Nas fade cut yesterday,Parked side Ways in the liquor store driveway,nobody can dictate,what i embrace,so get yA shit straight dick face,suede wallabee creams and carharrtt jeans riding round in Europeans legendary human beings,and we always gonna be them rebels,over turn every stone and pebble,till I reach a higher level,but till I'm old and grey or in a grave My heart it remain in central in all day ayyye
synth smooth. move like a pimp move.
purple mink suit rap. groove like a prince tune
simple spit bout shit that i’m in to.
influenced by bullshit that i bin through.
simple dude who’s interests include.
.ancient hindu. poetry and pingu.
sipping brew, picking shrooms, chicken vindaloo.
anything on ninja tune and whatever you’re not in to.
i’m what the handicap kid did in the pool.
i’m the shit. tell the principal. invincible.
when i’m in the mood. on the gin juice. like snoop.
in the booth spitting like i’m out the limo roof.
living proof. there’s no god. a grown broke ass
with no dosh. washed. watching ghost dog.
home alone, in the zone, with my phone off.
and my headphones on, stoned like the stones was.
i’m funkier than a mosquito tweet. mm
funkier than philipino feet.
i’m. incognito you could never Nemo me.
i keep low key. you need me. then bebo me.
lyrically you got ain’t nothing on me homie.
you ain’t gangster bruv. you an emoji.
smiley face mafucka drinking pinot gris
and your chick look like Cee Lo green.
Plus I heard she keen on e
Shawty up for days let her sleep on me
So what you on about bucks you get zero g
I See no e-vil but I be so seen
Dirty potty mouth Sgood baby GLC
Friends sayin he al g well BRB
Ma get D ALL FREE
Eat Amanda out thats mandrin for ni hao mi (Yummy)
Yeah Gotta say peace to the alba tros
Use to break z's down to g's just to count em off
Use to take cheese. Now I say cheese
And if she snap me in the spot she get the graming on
Get the hammer in the box wit no gram involved
pussy pandemonium me an Santa hoes
Gimmie 3 n see em antidote
Later on about the dick game and the smoke
Rick james addict nose
Not Sustain status quo
I'm Tryna 5th base thata hoe
Quick break Tap n go
The tip had To double Jimi wrap for collateral
Ya bitch mad Cuzz I'm cozy rocking all her favrite animals
She get the family jewels not the valuables
dinner plate the pussy with the cutlery
Front Slum Dunk the dunkaroo in her dungarees
No time for fuckery keep it buttery
Butter me a loaf of bread with a cup of tea
Fob styles fuck your bubbles and your buggery
Brotherly bond no skull duggery
Fuck police dogs and they pig owners
Louie vuiton and the rich shoulder that shit sits over
Dont need a bitch pull my chick closer
Dance to disco at home sniff coca and disrobe her
Under the strobe while the band play
Gimmie the cash fuck a handshake
I aint the champ but your man aint
He get pancaked from the jab straight aint no jam crepe
Okay pull the hand break up need to chill the fuck out before that band break up
Still sipping liqour till i cant stand straight up
The bouncer in the club like aye, tell your man wake up
back to it Cadillac music
Act stupid Yak cheap congac to it
Bar hard enouge to tattoo it
Bamboozled in a black buwick with a fat doobie
And i ain't passing jack to you bruv im Cam Newton
Bang the beat black and blue like a cuban on a conga
Put hands on your man like honda
Your bitch look like Madonna
from El Sol,
released March 13, 2016
Produced By: Mack Winters
Written By: Wes, Tom Scott, Dirty, Lui Tuiasau
From the derelict coffee shop waste land of Smith Street, Melbourne come two dyslexic track pant enthusiasts with nothing else going for them but a talent to make pointless words rhyme in succession and a knack for petty theft.