Your Old Droog - Homicide [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

[Produced By El RTNC]

[Verse 1]
Keep it thoroughl like bandana Pete
Take your wife on the canopy, she’s like a can of peaches
Don’t bring sand to my beaches, I’m no fan of features
When in the booth you smell fire
Smoke an L with Elvira
Leave the Philly blunts to Lily Munster
To ask her what she really wants to do
(Keep on talking) Ya hillbilly boo
What’s her name, Billy Sue?
And I heard she put up the cash
What makes you think I want to see the video when you’re trailer trash
You the type to run out of drugs and rail your ass
What a failure, fall back, you’re too frail to clash
Step up, get [Blocked?] like the cash ball
Motherfucks still stuck on the last bar
Moving forward, I got my own slang
You can keep your old word like you made a promise

[Hook]
Hi, it’s about to be a homicide, homicide
It’s about to be a homicide, homicide
It’s about to be a homicide
It’s about to be a homicide
It’s about to be a homicide, homicide
It’s about to be a homicide, homicide
It’s about to be a homicide
It’s about to be a homicide

[Verse 2]
Get you out of here like the sign that said Obama fried chicken
Or the corner thirsty for a homicide or a stick and licking
One false move, it’s time to pay
Ain’t no saying peace or Namaste, I’m gone find out where your mama stay
Fall the hell back, all Imma say (keep on talking)
On that silly shit scrapped, you really get slapped
And under my Philly it’s rap, pull off in a newer whip
Testament to my entrepreneurship
This unit’s been shipped across the border
It's fucked up when a quart of juice don’t even cost a quarter
Rest in peace to home girl, a stray quarter in the A order
That’s straight from Droog, the pissy hallway reporter
Now back to you in the studio, see what the weatherman got to say
Heard they raining bullets today
It’s about to be a homicide, kids and mamas cry
Toast to your death smoke till our eyes
Bloodshot red, rum, murder, we kill em
Emotionless, numb, no we don’t feel them
Cause dumb niggas deserve death
I put his punk ass where all the foul niggas went
Cross me fucker, feel my bust and bust
And I ain’t talking bout rhymes, better duck