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Viewing Lyrics for Third Stone From The Sun:
| | | Artist: | House Of Pain |
| | Album: | Miscellaneous | | Track: | Third Stone From The Sun | | | | Date Added: | 18/10/2007 | | Views: | 5 | | | | Lyrics: | Here come the pecker
Wood mic wrecker
Sweet like nectar
MC selector
Come
again, keep the style I'm bustin'
You think I'm droppin' acid ???only super cold does it???
Feel the rushin' through your blood and cerebellum
And any man that defies, eyes will be
swellin'
So whatcha smellin', kid, I'll bust your melon
Then I spit out the seed, you
got dirty deeds
You're done, dirt cheap, I'm on the greek don't sleep
Melee cause the
circus, but bullets run deep
And talk is cheap, kid, it's time to make moves
It's time to
make capital gains with my brains
The song remains, the same as it ever was
And you can
say my crew's fallin' but it never does
I'm white chocolate, clockwork apocalypse
Inter-dimensional like Prince be sensual
My interplanetary sub-galactic tactic
Got ya
wearin' vests like prophylactics
My verbal waters rock your sons and daughters
And I'll
tell more lies than priests and rabbis
And all the allies put together in a cipher
My
skin's my cell, no parole on my life
CHORUS:
Doin' time on the third stone from the
sun
Lucy got me on the run, kid, hold my gun
I'm dealin' with the pressures, son, life
ain't fun
Doin' time on the third stone from the sun
I'll be gettin' down and dirty
by 2030
Sippin' off my forty, out deep in your shorty
Lordy, glory, hallelujah
Like
a big Samoan my sig's gonna boo ya
Do-a-ditty, oh what a pity
I'm blowin' up the spot
like Oklahoma City
We might terrorism and hold plagerism
And blood shot vision 'cause I
smoke major 'ism
If you got sob stories, kid, don't tell me 'bout 'em
'Cause them tin
boots you wearin' I'm a lift you outta 'em
With two shots to your bid, I ain't playin' kid
I know the games that you runnin' and all the things you did
And you'll say 'holy cow'
if my gun go blaow
Click-bang, watch me do my thang
My element's in order, my attribute's
eternal
And all you duck MC's are smellin' just like the Colonel
You're all fried chicken
with your back side lickin'
I'll play you like a snitch with the ice pick stickin'
Out
your eye socket and if I wanna cock it
I play remelzee and pull it out my pocket
I pull
it out my pocket, I pull it out my pocket
Yeah, I play remelzee and pull it out my pocket
CHORUS | | | |
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