#Action bronson baby blue lyrics genius full
when the beat stops./Then it unties, then it relocks, then it relapsed, then it detox/Then heat back, like a heat pack, on his knee caps of the weak spot/Cause he want what we got, like yeah"īig Sean's Verse: "Okay, I walk with a limp and I talk with a slur/I might wear every single chain and mix it up with my fur/I might get every single drink and mix it up til I blur/I tell the bitch get on my lap, but don't you get on my nerves/I need that bag full of green like I lawnmow it/John Doe and all Sean Doe it/And I keep it G, yeah, I ground floor it/And I'm pound blowin'/If her pussy good then I might one, two, three, round four it/Got her down for it/Yeah, nigga overthink, never under stress/Yeah, I understand, your girl over, I'm so unimpressed/Yeah, and she tryna fuck me raw, unprotect/But if I don't have that rubber on it I feel under dressed/Yeah, and I got money bags under my eyes, ho, cause I ain't sleep/They all Goyard too cause I ain't cheap/And I put everything in motion like I-N-G/And when we flyin' private you could bring the gun on with us/I got this freak to 3rd base, she tryna run home with us/And I got comma on comma on comma on comma.
Verse 1: "We're all chemicals, vitamins and minerals/Vicodin with inner tubes, wrapped around the arm/To see the vein like a chicken on the barn/Top Cat chat, let's begin another yarn/That's flying saucer cheese, or is it chicken parm'?/But roosters don't fly like boosters don't buy/So what powers cowards to get them to the top/Just to fall asleep listening to Bach?/The ribbon in the sky is the riddim that I drop/Dribbling the eye across the prism of a clock/That lacks meaning, but racks up stacks of fat reading/They catch Chief and wrapped up plants from trap dealings/Now what's a coffin with a scratched ceiling?/And what's the talking without the match feeling/That's buried living? And cherry picking/Every lemon from your berry system/Then proceed with the pack feeding/When I was young I had visions of another world/Sneaking looks at the porn stash of my brother Hurl/Incense smoke made vortices and other curls/Casting calls from porn films and ad space for rubber girls/I like my pancakes cut in swirls/Moroccan moles and undercover squirrels/I like cartoons, southern cities with large moons/Faith healers, ex-female drug dealers and art booms/Apologize for my weird mix/What taste like hot dogs and tear drips/And looks like pantomime and clear bricks/And smells like shotguns and deer piss/They on their hunt, kind of salty that I'm going hard/First part of a party, that I throw in parts/One minute you're playing pool, next minute you're throwing darts/But that's how you do with a party that you throw in bars/I run the Gambit like I'm throwing cards/From popular mechanics to overdosing hearts/Paint cold pictures like Nova Scotia landscapes/Nerd gang, make Mandelbrot sets when we handshake/A word game back up plan that can dam lakes/Backup the wordplay playing at the man's states/Means I can still be the man if the dam breaks/And when demand brakes I'm reflectious, what they can't face/My peers will still treat the mirror like it's a fan base/The unfettered veteran, the eagle feathered man of medicine/That hovers above cities like weather men/And maybe weather woman/Whatever better to tell ya weather comin'/I prefer girls to reign all over the world/And not rain like, rain man or rain like rain dance/Or rain like a slight chance of rain when it's raining/Or rein like deer slaves to Santa Claus sleigh man/But reign like Queens that reign over made man/And not Queen like Queen killer, rhapsody bohemian Queen/But Queen, like white glove wave hand, and not wave hand, like it's a heat wave/So you make a fan by waving your hand, I'm talking wave, like you saying, "Hey man!"/And not hay for horses,and hoarse like you almost voiceless/You gotta treat your vocal chords, like it's a fortress/And treat every single one of your words, like reinforcements/And especially when you're recording/Cause that's the portion that's important/When I was reporting, that I was poor,but now I'm more than (poor)/It's still hooker heels, on my sugar hills, and sweet spots/Crying shames, make margarita rims, from cheap tops/Deep plots, in floor to ceiling windows, for my peep pots/A little scene, with the sickle swings, to make the wheat drop/And a hundred words, for them hummingbirds, that like to eavesdrop/And fan out, like peacocks, with a parakeet that beat box/So the sun rise, when the beat drops, and the sun dies.
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