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L.D. Stroy Lyrics - Artist : CES Cru
C-E-S (oh!)
Ces (yeah!) Yes, Godemis, yo First I take into consideration the composition Line over line is a visual contradiction But third's my suspicion is how I let all jail Or perhaps it would be better if the composition fail I lose the vision, just as quick as I had it But i've chosen the color scheme of blue monochromatic, perfect They got the concept that I can work with Let's keep it simple, and predict result, could be worth it Like the color God covers the Earth wit' Well shit reverse it, it's inverted murder, not in cursive Sometimes Italic, but never so automatic If ever I battle against it, then i've had it So that's it, 16 on the page The beast pops the E, then he leans on rage While the party's poppin' off with a hook He's in the corner scribblin' off in his book Now gimme somethin' He's back and ready to hit ya Now check the chorus Y'all know the name! Ces, on a mission Out to take your doll if you wit then feel me Drop a beat, break it down, like a chop shop All hell for honorable, a microphone phenomenal My vocal cords are swords that slice you, sweatin' through a tank top Coast to coast, slangin' audio, dope Forever in the lab with a pen and pad Usually suspected Rapper lyin' to me and I'mma smack you in the mouth So that you can redirect it Universally Respected You're listenin' to bullshit, you should be selected My lunar see the essence I'm Musically connected My Cru should be projected worldwide, 'round the web Like nudity and sex is Get beat in the face, yeah, you and me can set trip We'll meet up in the place where you can see the X's You heard about your big spit coming out of kicks With a house built so thick they running out of bricks Shit, city is slummed out, she rough around the stick Shit, we finna dumb out, don't fuck around with this 'Less you double strapped wit' willy Coming out your kicks son, gun smack you silly We thuggin' out to this, oh, it's all raps, but really Fuck me on the dough we in all black with Millis Ballcaps and Billies, yo Was hopin' for the turntables and Steve Burns Y'all know the name! Ces, on a mission Out to take your doll if you wit then feel me Drop dope rhymes and bustin' ill instrumentals Paid on freestyles, apocalyptic with my pen Proven skills, although, without no record contract My vocal cords are swords that slice you, sweatin' through a tank top Drop a beat, break it down, like a chop shop C'mon |
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