Clipse - Inglorious Bastards (with Lyrics & Subtitles)
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Clipse - Inglorious Bastards (en) Lyrics
by RentAnAdviser.com
When we are together, we got power
We have shifted from having a seizure
About what the man got, to
seizing what we need
Burn, baby, burn!
Catch me in the kitchen
where the dope is
With an apron that's whiter
than the Pope’s is
Spread distribution, wide open
Now all the smokers call him Moses
Heron browner than baby roaches
Got your bitch bent over
like scoliosis
Watching Tiafoe with the Open
That's the only back and
forth that I'm posting
Wе really netted what wе grossing
By the way, I’m writin'
this on an ocean
By the way, this anchor's
really frozen
By the way, the sinkers being loaded
Cause by the way, this thinker's
really chosen
Head halo'ing
Seated in a late foreign
Name a bitch who ain't going
Two tone with the Royce rolling
Just a glimpse what the boy holding
Knocking over all you toy soldiers
One plus four acres, no neighbors
I remember the days of no cable
Columbian stallions in a stable
With natural titties and no navels
Only work getting done is on the table
Death to skimmers and shavers
I'm allergic to anything other
than money behavior
Inglorious, victorious
Wide body, B.I.G. like Notorious
Tell me is we trafficking or trickin'
Somebody gotta show me the difference
Stand on every word whenever
I wrote shit
Under my boots, nigga,
nothin’ but goat shit
I was fine getting rich
under their noses
Today, a nigga celebrate
to ya and post it
Saltwater tears, cooked with sodium
McLaren hypercar, no petroleum
Back then, hid work under linoleum
That thinking got me standing
on this podium
Chop the roof off, nigga
this coupe talk
A Virginia nigga driving in New York
State trap ducking
My tints was too dark
The money’s in a trailer car
Fuck what you thought
Been playin' in the snow like Rudolph
In that 2 door, roof
helping me cool off
Chains on me like Slick Rick the Ruler
Seats white but the 6
blacker than Umar
Niggas trying to stop my
play, Parisian nights
Private rooms at Bar des
Prés, the seasons right
Lou Vuitton, hug my arms
Scribbled in red, blood diamonds
flood my charm
The chauffeurs are made
Flights are chartered
The villas in the hills are paved
Blood is spilled, ring finger,
names engraved
Shirts are silk, the yacht
life, flags are waved
Tell me is we trafficking or trickin’
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