60 SECOND ASSASSIN - Cloud 9 lyrics
rate meIf I could pack 'em out I'll lock down every house
From L.A. to Chicago
Roll 'em in a blunt I'll let 'em hit it once and they'd be dead
If I could lock 'em up I'd use so much cut that when they fry 'em half they profit is gon'
Cause the shit's so damn wrong, they still gon' call
Tryna get back on, and oooohhhh the sensation when he places his arms around me
I'm higher then I could ever be
Body bags in the back of the Ave
They keep jacking our swag
Rubber grip on the .44 mag
We write rhymes in a scientist's lab
With a pen and a pad
So our chemistry is murderous gas
I got the underground now in a smash
It's stack digital cash
And rip commercialized niggas in half
Put a slash in his 360
He can't eat with me, unless you come thru the G-60
They gotta
We gon' be what we gonna be
Money, clothes and ho's
We don't care about responsibilities
Love, sex and welfare checks
We gon' be what we gonna be
Gangsters, hustlers and a whole buncha murders for flavors
You're a million miles from 120 degrees, 120 degrees
Nobody's smiling
Cloud 9
I can't lie in class I wrote rhymes
Had my face in the book resource was on mind
Never said much, my thoughts was online
And my notepad yeah the Son is gon' shine
Even got reprimanded by my school counselor
She said "Son you would never amount to a... "
WHAT!? ! "Successful man with these types of grades
Quit all that rapping jargon throwing all your life away"
And all that hype and praise won't see the light of day
Even my moms tried to pray, hoping my mind would change
But I couldn't keep the fire tamed in
My heart playing beats yo I spend entire days in the dark
Under a desk light, tryna create the darts
Fighting the livest spark, designing a timeless art
The wordsmith, I split these mics apart
Out the dirt, unearth, polish the diamond
Body bags in the back of the Ave
They keep jacking our swag
Rubber grip on the .44 mag
We write rhymes in a scientist's lab
With a pen and a pad
So our chemistry is murderous gas
I got the underground now in a smash
It's stack digital cash
And rip commercialized niggas in half
Put a slash in his 360
He can't eat with me, unless you come thru the G-60
They gotta
We gon' be what we gonna be
Money, clothes and ho's
We don't care about responsibilities
Love, sex and welfare checks
We gon' be what we gonna be
Gangsters, hustlers and a whole buncha murders for flavors
You're a million miles from 120 degrees, 120 degrees
Nobody's smiling
Cloud 9
Now I lay, you down to sleep
I pray to Lord my soul to keep
And if I shall die before I awake
I pray to Lord my soul he take
Another time my mind dwelled on a spell I heard
Cries from the dead souls burning in hell
Visions of their flesh, drowning in the flood
One of the hallucinogens and I seen head soaked in blood
I snapped back to reality, dashed for my Bible
Opened it up, in heavy confusion, reaching for survival
But all of a sudden, I'm overpowered by that curse
The psalms that I read, made my visions worst
Seen a therapist, told 'em spirits tried to bury me
Spilled what's on my mind, when I was done, he needed therapy
He recommended a baptism, a sacrifice
My soul rose to heaven but was cast back down by blast
In forms of thunder, rain, hail, heavy winds
Not even the blood of Christ could cleanse my conscious of sin
Cloud 9
