Testo The Kid's Racist - OG Hindu Kush
Testo della canzone The Kid's Racist (OG Hindu Kush), tratta dall'album In 3d
cops roll hatin' - pop, lock and dislocate 'em
won't know it's them, they rock disguises like roleplayin'
even when it's cold, rainin'...i go paintin'
think Rome's ancient? i got throws that are cold cases
while toys beefin' like G.I. Joe and Cobra agents
i'm more concerned with layin' low, man you gnomesayin'?
shorty was so patient, body was so bangin'
smokin' butt, no douja and she 'stog blazin'
so hot, got your ho faintin', hotter than a gold plated
Phaeton or a Phantom on stolen Daytons
i'll kick your door in like home invasions
tourin' Vegas to Copenhagen, outside got the tourists waitin'
no more, you see the correlation?
(ease back with your feedback, dunny) don't need your okayin'
your show lame and you're so flagrantly cocainin'
my whole day's so lame, only ate cold ramen
i can't wait to get home, i got some smoke waitin'
sit alone, zonin' stoned, cold coma patient
to a t, connect dots like we go trainin'
next spot, might bounce like it's postdated
next meal, roadkill for the crows waitin'
best deal, yo get real.get your dough- makin'
buildin' blocks, my motivation is no debatin'
we stampede, bad seeds with the soul of Satan
(hook)
The Kid's Racist, paints bitches from all places
we Darth Vaders in chocolate flavored Clark gators
we crate diggers, you ballbreakers cannot fade us
with clipper scissors or crossfaders, do not play us do not name us, composite sketch or try trace us
for revenge, pop shots where your pops' grave is
car chases on the way to court cases
and they ain't got time to budge, text message bribe the judge
attorney at law, part of me says the bar raised us
that's why we bubble to the top like scotch chasers
god's favorite, long gone since his mom made him
knew he'd be a criminal, dropped him off at the cop station
conversations, altercations then incarcerations
if i don't trust you i won't fuck with you, even the broad i'm datin'
taught me the art of waitin'
but it turned into a long bid... picture me at auctions for post-modern paintings
you emulators and imitators ain't innovators
you bit your favorites then sprinkled with artificial flavors
your chance of survival depends on our fickle nature
so we said our little prayers to your incubators
you been traitors - your word don't mean shit, player
your bitch schooled me? what, she got a "Eat-A-Dick" major?
swing chairs like Ric Flair, middle fingers flick into mid-air
yeah, you sinkin' in despair
you get sorta dissed, yeah... but over thick snares
sounding like a classic hit there, So Sincere
they kinda stick to your head, like a nymph's hair
from the jizz layers that's been glazin' these chicks' faces
(hook)
Credits
Writer(s): Rajiv Kumar
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