Flatbush Zombies x Trash Talk - '97.92' | Текст песни

• Тексты песен
• Flatbush Zombies x Trash Talk
• '97.92'

[Verse 1: Erick Arc Elliott]
These are the reasons, this is what we've become
Replacing humanity with the standards of reruns
Cause seasons change
I see the fame, hope you see the same
Haters talking, ladies talking, cause they need your name
In they mouth, so I'm spitting game
I can't smoke, but I already lit the thing
The hood made me ask for it
And made me ignorant to past burns
Trash turd when I blast Earth
I ask God why, how could he betray me
Since a younger me was always scatterbrained and crazy
Arrogance only adds to my power craft
Time's ticking, I'm steady tipping my hourglass
International, my thoughts be cashmere
You're fabric that doesn't flatter this year
Often researched and revered, it's a wonder I'm here
And you're under my ears
Throw me a bundle of something I could put in a ear

[Verse 2: Zombie Juice]
Five AM, same old thing
Lay my head down, trying to make it to my dreams
Down another bottle, hands sticky from the green
Light skin, brown skin, we all the same thing
Stop splitting brothers up, y'all ain't learn from the slaves?
See everybody special in their own kind of way
You can't hate the player, you can't play the game
Dog, your bar's garbage, might need a new thing
Might need a new plane, you rappers get mood swings
Swing swinging like Peter Parker, the new Siddhartha
Making profits from making prophets, a major profit
Prophesize, monopolize, and take the office
Get it, get it how you get, live, never forget it
Electric Kool-Aid, welcome to the new wave
More money in the bank, more money to be made
There's rules to the game, like make your own lane
Zombie baby, I'm gnarly wavy
Bob Marley raised me, light it up and praise thee

[Verse 3: Meechy Darko]
I got to keep it cryptic, powers that be wanna censor us
They tryna make some sense of us
I just told 'em cut the check, go and make some cents with us
Oh, you don't see dead people? Need to get your senses up
And if that ain't the loud, homie, I ain't toking it
Bud stinky like three days with no deodorant
Just a bunch of dead homies and some trash talkers
Naysayers get back, hand it and black ball it
That ain't even a word, but when you're this flawless
You could say what you want and everybody be on it
Zombies running the rotten apple, make sense don't it?
Remember me? Mr. Allergic-To-Baby-Strollers
Show pity? Nah, G, not in my city
Ride with me, you'll get ran over and die quickly
Black king, I should have a hundred brides with me
Now that's a big prenup, but F it, we don't need one
We one big family, ladies, let's all eat up

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