статистика каталог исполнителей песен  
песни: 61179
группы: 12214
  • A
  • B
  • C
  • D
  • E
  • F
  • G
  • H
  • I
  • J
  • K
  • L
  • M
  • N
  • O
  • P
  • Q
  • R
  • S
  • T
  • U
  • V
  • W
  • X
  • Y
  • Z
  • А
  • Б
  • В
  • Г
  • Д
  • Е
  • Ж
  • З
  • И
  • К
  • Л
  • М
  • Н
  • О
  • П
  • Р
  • С
  • Т
  • У
  • Ф
  • Х
  • Ц
  • Ч
  • Ш
  • Щ
  • Э
  • Ю
  • Я

  • Talib Kweli & Dead Prez »

    Talib Kweli & Dead Prez Sharp Shooters текст песни

    Sharp Shooters

    Everything is politics Kweli people army you know it

    (M 1)
    The white man came to Africa with rifles and Bibles
    Heard the name started changin the titles
    Now instead of Chaka call me Nat Turner with the burner
    Freedom fighter for this revolution fuck a wave journer
    See I be what John Wilkes Booth was to Lincoln blam!
    Sirhan Sirhan peepin through the curtains with my eyes on a Kennedy
    Dead prez, politic, know your enemy, keep your toast close
    Because political power come from the barrel of it
    We in a war, nigga leave it or love it
    Since they got us in a scope like a P.E. logo
    I watch for the po-po (woop woop) and train at the dojo
    Not a gun Deniro but a working class hero
    Takin a stand, like a panther with an M-1 Guran
    Screamin know your gun laws, self defense is a must
    When we set it off I’m a be the first to bust

    (Chorus — dead prez)
    Yo, I’m one with my gun, I love it like my first son
    It protects me and makes sure the jakes respect me
    Yo, I’m one with my gun, I love it like my first son
    It protects me and makes sure the jakes respect me

    (Talib Kweli)
    What do you do
    When the police kick in your door like ‘get on the floor’
    Shoot you in the back
    Cause who you are and where you at’s against the law
    You try to protect your home with the illest arsenal possible
    Learn how to heal yourself and stop fuckin with them hospitals
    Get with brothas down for the cause givin it all they got
    But every brother ain’t a brother (word), fuck around and get shot
    By these black kings that pack gatlings
    To make a rat sing like Nat King
    Before they start blasting (blow!)
    With no accuracy, handling they beef in the public
    Now an innocent child got a bag for a stomach
    Property value plumit every time a shot is fired (c’mon)
    People feelin betrayed so they take the street to riot
    Cops fire shots and try to stop the spirit takin over the entire block
    Politicians say it’s time to march
    But people is past that, ready to blast at whatever comin
    From the master or from the office, niggas is sick of runnin
    Yeah, all my soldier, raise it up, c’mon, now
    (Bust ya guns) yeah, Kweli with dead prez, c’mon
    (Blow blow)

    I’m deep in the runs
    Where all that niggas give a fuck about is stackin funds
    The black and young type that’s packin automatic guns
    If any static comes sparatic shots’ll ring out
    You get caught up, you get your fuckin brains blown clean out
    The killers reign supreme, survival of the illest brain and scheme
    For cream you know the game in my vein
    I feel the pain for all the niggas that passed away
    Tryin to get cash the fastest way we know how, the old fashion way
    Blastin, we actin like cock tecs and tenniments
    My squad flex if any shit pop, and put an end to it
    It’s like hell, this planet I’m from consist of dilligent crack sale
    Assisting off the backs of young black males
    It’s innocent, suspending in packed jails that benefit
    White well being, while niggas catch hell just for being
    You might as well have a life of crime, ain’t nothin free in this life
    I stick a nine in ya spine for mine
    No time for talk, ’cause I walk when I talk
    Stalkin sidewalks of course with the eyes of a hawk
    Crack a quart to get away from this trife world and thought
    Puffin Newports ’cause life’s a bitch, and it’s too short
    My crew sport leather, gold, camoflauge, rugged denim
    Deadly in venom, totin buckets with nothin in ‘em
    But Rawkus, some ill mothafuckas for real
    Straight hustlas with nothin but a taste for kill

    (Chorus) 4x

    (Talib Kweli talking)
    Yeah, c’mon, all my soldiers
    Brooklyn where you at
    Florida, Cincinnati where you at
    Africa where you at, yo

    Форма обратной связи