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Текст песни Spice 1 - 1990Sick

Spice 1 - 1990Sick слова песни




Chorus:Kill em all (x4)Cuz everybody dyin on this muthafuckin albumKill em all (x4)Dont kick up in the dirt when Im puttin in workKill em all (x4)Cuz everybody dyin on this muthafuckin albumI murda like this (this)I murda like that (that)Pull an ak-47 up out my muthafuckin gangsta hatProfessinal, columiban, necktiea, barbwireStrangula, over killa, dead fuckin body hangaPeepin out the window with an akPullin up on these coppasHelicoptas, squad cars, squat 10s with choppasThey tellin me "nigga, get the fuck out before ya dieIf you surrender, well make sure that you quickly fry"Should I kick open the door and go to warOr should I stick my throatLeave a pipe bomb and a fuck you noteHallucinations of seein lynched bodies burninAnd all the po-po had faces like mark furhmanTear gas through my glass window paneThey wanna put me back up in the nut house againBut Im not goin back and take my prozacThey can keep the straight jacketAnd leave a straight mutha fuckin jackA straight mutha fuckin jackA straight mutha fuckin jackChorus(get the hell off my dick, Im 1990-sick)(1990-sick) (x4)Niggas to pull the lynchYayo case and stickMarcia clark screamin out murda, jumpin on ojs dickMuthafuckas still sufferin and healinSome high tech knowledga white boys blew up the fuckin fed buildinCrazy niggas still bangin and slangin crackTo the death, when the game put em up on they backMuthafuckas catchin names, from shootin highAnd phony niggas still get sprayed up on the blockAnd I aint changed much, hellIm still smokin four or five muthafuckin choppas before its twelveMuthafuckas think they know me, but they dont knowIm sellin first class tickets to the murda showDont wanna rap about no nigga, lets get it onBustin domes, buck shots through your rib boneSo all you niggas up in the magazines talkin shitGet off my dick, Im 1990-sickChorusMuh-uh-mobbin up out the cu-uh-cutWith a ready to pow oneNuh-uh-90 sick content of the albumIf theres a cure for this, dont cure meIm comin with the furyPlaya hatas gettin hung up like a jurySo peep the game from an old school g you know so wellThe east bay gangsta, leaving caution tape and faces paleI bails on a full moon like the 12 o clockNeighborhood watch scared to look and see who on the blockJust fed a rallys, no po-po come around hereCuz its a different time, different game, different year1990 sickChorusx2(get the hell off my dick, Im 1990-sick)(1990-sick) (x4)

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Spice 1 - 2 Hands And A Razor
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