• Title:Knife Talk
  • Artist:Drake;21 Savage;Project Pat
  • Album:Certified Lover Boy
  • KaraokeRate:1★
  • Languages:en
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  • TXT Lyric:

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    作词 : A. Graham/S. Bin Abraham-Joseph/L. WAYNE/P. Houston/J. Houston/R. Mayers/P. Johnson
    作曲 : A. Graham/S. Bin Abraham-Joseph/L. WAYNE/P. Houston/J. Houston/R. Mayers/P. Johnson
    I gotta feed the streets, my pistol gon' bleed the streets
    Ski mask on my face, sometimes you got to cheat
    To stay ahead in this bitch-ard (Gang), drank syrup like it's liquor
    Street life'll have you catchin' up to God quicker (Yeah, gang)
    Sticker, Ak-40 to your liver
    Let the chopper bang on you like a Blood or a Cripper (Gang)
    Flipper, so much bread, I'm a gymnast
    Made so much money off of dummies, off of dummies (Yeah, gang)

    I'm mister body catcher, Slaughter Gang soul snatcher
    Ain't no regular F-150, this a ****in' Raptor
    No capper, street n***a, not a rapper
    Chopper hit him and he turned into a booty clapper
    Smith & Wesson, I'm 4L Gang reppin'
    We done baptized morе n***as than the damn reverеnd (Yeah)
    Kappa Alpha, me and my gang, we do all the steppin'
    Who you checkin'? This FN shoot East to West End (Gang)
    Yeah, I heard Papi outside
    And he got the double-R droppy outside
    Checked the weather and it's gettin' real oppy outside
    I'ma drop this sh*t and have these pussies droppin' like some m********kin'—
    Type of n***a that can't look me in the eyes
    I despise, When I see you, better put that ****in' pride to the side
    Many times, plenty times, I survived
    Beef is live, spoiler alert, this n***a dies
    Keep blickies, and you know the weed sticky
    My finger itchy, the Glock like to leave hickeys
    Your shooters iffy, a street punk could never diss me
    I come straight up out the 6, and we don't spare sixties
    I **** with her, and **** with her, and her
    I hit up err and tell him do the err, for sure
    Voodoo curse, it got him while I flew to Turks
    Know the dogs had to hit them where we knew it hurts
    Gang sh*t, that's all I'm on (Yeah)
    Gang sh*t, that's all I'm on
    N***a, gang sh*t, that's all I'm on
    Let it bang, bang, let it bang, bang
    'Til his brains hang and his mama sang
    And the pastor sang and them bullets sang
    And them choppers sang and the choir sang
    I'm on everything, Jacob charged me four-fifty for a tennis chain
    US Open, had it on us at the tennis game
    Tell the coach don't take me out, I like to finish games
    And my pen insane, and my men insane
    There's like eighty of us now, that's the scary thing
    Sh*t they doin' on that other side, embarrassing
    We in Paris with it, hundred carats with it
    All this sh*t is for my son, 'cause he's inheritin' it
    If Young Metro don't trust you I'm gon' shoot you, Gang
    Gang sh*t, that's all I'm on, yeah