Extra Thug Sauce 歌词
| 歌曲 | Extra Thug Sauce |
| 歌手 | Celph Titled |
| 专辑 | The Gatalog: A Collection of Chaos |
| 下载 | Image LRC TXT |
| Intro | |
| (Verse 1: Guttamouf) | |
| Yeah, haha, we a’int nothing buta psychotic mother ******s in here | |
| I’m a equal opportunity cap buster | |
| White, black, Spanish, it don’t matter | |
| Sixteen make you cough up your gall bladder | |
| Even if you a *************, it means no different | |
| It doesn’t matter if you wear bullet resistant | |
| I smack mother ******s and leave barrel imprints | |
| I represent the mentally unstable | |
| Who usually end up dead or in jail | |
| While you get your coffin, I get lunch with Lucifer | |
| Had breakfast with the grim reaper | |
| Treat your body to a led diet | |
| If you don’t shut the ************* up and be quiet | |
| I’m God’s gift to your mother ******g photo | |
| Spit on your photo, *************t on your promo | |
| With me running around, get a bullet proof do-rag | |
| Portable IV and a mother ******g *************t bag | |
| (Chorus: Celph Titled) | |
| Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| (Verse 2: Majik Most) | |
| Ay yo, I’m coming to your city and I’ll probably be | |
| Rolling with a posse that will eat a homeless woman’s ************* | |
| While playing Pavarotti they’ll be fi*************ng your body | |
| Out of Lake Erie in Michigan | |
| With a Michelin tire wrapped around your midsection | |
| I’m stepping on your corpse with a quart of your blood | |
| All over my corduroys | |
| While I bring the noise and, strict nine and poisons | |
| Yeah, the type of *************t I spit will leave you hollow in side | |
| So mother ************* rap cats who can’t get live | |
| I’m kicking hardcore lyrics till the age of 85 | |
| Until I retire, I’m only getting nicer | |
| I’ll slam your ******g face down on a deli slicer | |
| You’re crazy shook, rocking a Kevlar vest | |
| A bullet took your head off and left a little piece of your neck | |
| I need respect, I’m taking *************t higher | |
| Make you firearm backfire and light your arm on fire | |
| You stupid ************* | |
| (Chorus: Celph Titled) | |
| Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| (Verse 3: Celph Titled) | |
| Watch how I run through your clique | |
| And straight kill every homeboy | |
| Y’all *************s softer than the Pill*************ury doughboy | |
| ******g *************, you eat ************* nuggets and love it | |
| Watching a Richard Simmons tape | |
| And jack off after you dub it | |
| Celph Titled is known to leave heads severally bleeding | |
| And keep crack heads on my block fiending | |
| If your rhymes are poisonous, I’ll make you eat your words | |
| My gun talk money, imagine all the heat you could earn | |
| Record a joint with me featuring you getting beat the ************* up | |
| In a sound booth with a busted mics in front of your ******g wife | |
| Rocking prosthetic limbs, your crew copped the boot leg | |
| Call the police, you all shook daddy, ************* we two feds | |
| Ain’t another spic realer than me | |
| I give a ************* about hip hop, I’m just in it for cheese | |
| And if this music don’t work, I’ll just find another hustle | |
| You probably hate me for saying that *************t so I say ************* you | |
| I kick rhymes on mad records just cause I can | |
| You wish to spit bars on vinyl, but you’ll never have fans | |
| By the time you get a chance to have your first single out | |
| My discography is countless with six figure amounts | |
| The God Celph Titled, contested by no one | |
| *************s want to bring it, you can catch me at a show, dun | |
| ************* that, son who, gun you, | |
| Look what I done to, young crews that tried to come through | |
| *************s owe me loot, they turn up like rafts and canoes | |
| I’m laughing at dude for thinking he as raw as my crew | |
| From the NY boroughs and alleys to Hill*************orough County | |
| My name ring bells like free phone sex rallies | |
| The Rubix Cuban, unsolvable | |
| Shoot out the voice box of emcees and leave them inaudible | |
| An entrepreneur, your crew rocking my line of body bags | |
| In the Chrome Depot, we got shopping bags full of gats | |
| (Chorus: Celph Titled) | |
| Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it’s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap *************t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of *************s that’s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother ******s beat downs with extra thug sauce |
| Intro | |
| Verse 1: Guttamouf | |
| Yeah, haha, we a' int nothing buta psychotic mother s in here | |
| I' m a equal opportunity cap buster | |
| White, black, Spanish, it don' t matter | |
| Sixteen make you cough up your gall bladder | |
| Even if you a , it means no different | |
| It doesn' t matter if you wear bullet resistant | |
| I smack mother s and leave barrel imprints | |
| I represent the mentally unstable | |
| Who usually end up dead or in jail | |
| While you get your coffin, I get lunch with Lucifer | |
| Had breakfast with the grim reaper | |
| Treat your body to a led diet | |
| If you don' t shut the up and be quiet | |
| I' m God' s gift to your mother g photo | |
| Spit on your photo, t on your promo | |
| With me running around, get a bullet proof dorag | |
| Portable IV and a mother g t bag | |
| Chorus: Celph Titled | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Verse 2: Majik Most | |
| Ay yo, I' m coming to your city and I' ll probably be | |
| Rolling with a posse that will eat a homeless woman' s | |
| While playing Pavarotti they' ll be fi ng your body | |
| Out of Lake Erie in Michigan | |
| With a Michelin tire wrapped around your midsection | |
| I' m stepping on your corpse with a quart of your blood | |
| All over my corduroys | |
| While I bring the noise and, strict nine and poisons | |
| Yeah, the type of t I spit will leave you hollow in side | |
| So mother rap cats who can' t get live | |
| I' m kicking hardcore lyrics till the age of 85 | |
| Until I retire, I' m only getting nicer | |
| I' ll slam your g face down on a deli slicer | |
| You' re crazy shook, rocking a Kevlar vest | |
| A bullet took your head off and left a little piece of your neck | |
| I need respect, I' m taking t higher | |
| Make you firearm backfire and light your arm on fire | |
| You stupid | |
| Chorus: Celph Titled | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Verse 3: Celph Titled | |
| Watch how I run through your clique | |
| And straight kill every homeboy | |
| Y' all s softer than the Pill ury doughboy | |
| g , you eat nuggets and love it | |
| Watching a Richard Simmons tape | |
| And jack off after you dub it | |
| Celph Titled is known to leave heads severally bleeding | |
| And keep crack heads on my block fiending | |
| If your rhymes are poisonous, I' ll make you eat your words | |
| My gun talk money, imagine all the heat you could earn | |
| Record a joint with me featuring you getting beat the up | |
| In a sound booth with a busted mics in front of your g wife | |
| Rocking prosthetic limbs, your crew copped the boot leg | |
| Call the police, you all shook daddy, we two feds | |
| Ain' t another spic realer than me | |
| I give a about hip hop, I' m just in it for cheese | |
| And if this music don' t work, I' ll just find another hustle | |
| You probably hate me for saying that t so I say you | |
| I kick rhymes on mad records just cause I can | |
| You wish to spit bars on vinyl, but you' ll never have fans | |
| By the time you get a chance to have your first single out | |
| My discography is countless with six figure amounts | |
| The God Celph Titled, contested by no one | |
| s want to bring it, you can catch me at a show, dun | |
| that, son who, gun you, | |
| Look what I done to, young crews that tried to come through | |
| s owe me loot, they turn up like rafts and canoes | |
| I' m laughing at dude for thinking he as raw as my crew | |
| From the NY boroughs and alleys to Hill orough County | |
| My name ring bells like free phone sex rallies | |
| The Rubix Cuban, unsolvable | |
| Shoot out the voice box of emcees and leave them inaudible | |
| An entrepreneur, your crew rocking my line of body bags | |
| In the Chrome Depot, we got shopping bags full of gats | |
| Chorus: Celph Titled | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce |
| Intro | |
| Verse 1: Guttamouf | |
| Yeah, haha, we a' int nothing buta psychotic mother s in here | |
| I' m a equal opportunity cap buster | |
| White, black, Spanish, it don' t matter | |
| Sixteen make you cough up your gall bladder | |
| Even if you a , it means no different | |
| It doesn' t matter if you wear bullet resistant | |
| I smack mother s and leave barrel imprints | |
| I represent the mentally unstable | |
| Who usually end up dead or in jail | |
| While you get your coffin, I get lunch with Lucifer | |
| Had breakfast with the grim reaper | |
| Treat your body to a led diet | |
| If you don' t shut the up and be quiet | |
| I' m God' s gift to your mother g photo | |
| Spit on your photo, t on your promo | |
| With me running around, get a bullet proof dorag | |
| Portable IV and a mother g t bag | |
| Chorus: Celph Titled | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Verse 2: Majik Most | |
| Ay yo, I' m coming to your city and I' ll probably be | |
| Rolling with a posse that will eat a homeless woman' s | |
| While playing Pavarotti they' ll be fi ng your body | |
| Out of Lake Erie in Michigan | |
| With a Michelin tire wrapped around your midsection | |
| I' m stepping on your corpse with a quart of your blood | |
| All over my corduroys | |
| While I bring the noise and, strict nine and poisons | |
| Yeah, the type of t I spit will leave you hollow in side | |
| So mother rap cats who can' t get live | |
| I' m kicking hardcore lyrics till the age of 85 | |
| Until I retire, I' m only getting nicer | |
| I' ll slam your g face down on a deli slicer | |
| You' re crazy shook, rocking a Kevlar vest | |
| A bullet took your head off and left a little piece of your neck | |
| I need respect, I' m taking t higher | |
| Make you firearm backfire and light your arm on fire | |
| You stupid | |
| Chorus: Celph Titled | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Verse 3: Celph Titled | |
| Watch how I run through your clique | |
| And straight kill every homeboy | |
| Y' all s softer than the Pill ury doughboy | |
| g , you eat nuggets and love it | |
| Watching a Richard Simmons tape | |
| And jack off after you dub it | |
| Celph Titled is known to leave heads severally bleeding | |
| And keep crack heads on my block fiending | |
| If your rhymes are poisonous, I' ll make you eat your words | |
| My gun talk money, imagine all the heat you could earn | |
| Record a joint with me featuring you getting beat the up | |
| In a sound booth with a busted mics in front of your g wife | |
| Rocking prosthetic limbs, your crew copped the boot leg | |
| Call the police, you all shook daddy, we two feds | |
| Ain' t another spic realer than me | |
| I give a about hip hop, I' m just in it for cheese | |
| And if this music don' t work, I' ll just find another hustle | |
| You probably hate me for saying that t so I say you | |
| I kick rhymes on mad records just cause I can | |
| You wish to spit bars on vinyl, but you' ll never have fans | |
| By the time you get a chance to have your first single out | |
| My discography is countless with six figure amounts | |
| The God Celph Titled, contested by no one | |
| s want to bring it, you can catch me at a show, dun | |
| that, son who, gun you, | |
| Look what I done to, young crews that tried to come through | |
| s owe me loot, they turn up like rafts and canoes | |
| I' m laughing at dude for thinking he as raw as my crew | |
| From the NY boroughs and alleys to Hill orough County | |
| My name ring bells like free phone sex rallies | |
| The Rubix Cuban, unsolvable | |
| Shoot out the voice box of emcees and leave them inaudible | |
| An entrepreneur, your crew rocking my line of body bags | |
| In the Chrome Depot, we got shopping bags full of gats | |
| Chorus: Celph Titled | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce | |
| Pull out the heat, it' s about to get dirty | |
| No more rap t, just heavy artillery | |
| We the type of s that' s quick to blow your mug off | |
| Serving mother s beat downs with extra thug sauce |
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