Glenwood Projects Lyrics
| Song | Glenwood Projects |
| Artist | Ill Bill |
| Album | Ill Bill - What's Wrong With Bill ((Instrumentals)) |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : Braunstein, Braunstein ... | |
| (Uncle Howie) | |
| "Glenwood mother-fuckin' Projects, that was the fuckin' place man. Fuckin' | |
| crack smoking all night. Cookin' it up, sellin' C4, weapons, blowguns, every | |
| mother-fuckin' thing - what a fuckin' rush. We were cookin' the shit up, an' | |
| I smoked it up an' the Jamaicans man, they came back, fuckin' torched the | |
| place, with me mother-fuckin' in it! I couldn't get out the fuckin | |
| apartment, they locked me in, I had to go out the fuckin window, it was | |
| fuckin' dynamite!" | |
| (Ill Bill) | |
| Ill Bill lost sanity - lost humanity | |
| Lost in a maze of purple haze, cannabis sativa - spit ether - violently | |
| Very vociferous – victorious - hotter than a crematorium - I'll kill all of you | |
| Kill you – mother-fuck you - Drop dead faggit it's the dragon | |
| .44 Magnum - splatter you in front of your family | |
| My fire arms, never be tired - up in the air | |
| Throw a bullet up in each eye – an' one in ya ear | |
| I speak heroin, breathe weed, sniff cocaine | |
| Tweaked levels when I peeped Courtney kill Cobain | |
| We got the whole world scratching they heads | |
| Life is like a high-jacked airliner, but we managed to win | |
| Back to the crib, breakin up the cats in the brig | |
| Havin a bitch - flashin the tits - While you crashing the whip | |
| Laughin at hoes, taking fakerss to amateur flicks | |
| While the Ill Bill albums kidnapping your kids | |
| (Chorus – Ill Bill x2) | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into 'Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, Pop-Pop – three in ya brain | |
| (Necro) | |
| I get impatient like a long bid - get so vexed I hit the wrong kid | |
| Shit gets awkward, like I'm on a drug an' I can't get off it | |
| Blank out – rip a shank out | |
| Treat you like Vietcong - hit you like the weed in a bong | |
| Your pussy like a G-string or thong | |
| You think I'm sick? Fucked up? Oh am I? | |
| You think you can't die? | |
| Don't think your crazy cuz a years passed by | |
| Beat you down with my fuckin' hands tied | |
| Now change your attitude, before you get cracked from different latitudes | |
| By kids that are mad at you – they expect gratitude | |
| I'll strike a foe - even if you don't know me you better act like you know | |
| Especially if you're soft – I've earned my stripes like Schwarzkopf | |
| The gun I bust off will tear through your clothes like a moth | |
| Your sloppy, cuz you start beef, and cop please, but not me… | |
| (Chorus – Ill Bill x2) | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into 'Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, Pop-Pop – three in ya brain | |
| (Goretex) | |
| I rock sickening raps like Woody Allen flares beach hats | |
| A John Hinckley – run up on politicians with ski caps | |
| Laser weapons – I bleed coke, happiness is like a warm gun | |
| Run in ya crib slitting ya G's throat | |
| Cruise the block, whippin' uzi's an' pop | |
| Loosin the cops, whether new lots or zooming through Watts | |
| The newest space suite, love rocking titties like grapefruits | |
| Phase two - Rasta-ice inverted "Hey-Zeus" (Jesus) | |
| I'm up in fat burger – bag some codeine | |
| So clean, pinstripe gat runners are Old G's | |
| serving the fiends crack, dope and weed | |
| Glenwood projects - we living the American dream | |
| Screaming "hey pelican" – trains of coke on my cock | |
| Handle bars like "Vivica" – with nipples and crotch | |
| We toured - drive-bys on the mongoose with glocks | |
| This ain't rhetorical, the story gets worse – you get shot | |
| (Chorus – Ill Bill x2) | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into 'Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, Pop-Pop – three in ya brain |
| zuo qu : Braunstein, Braunstein ... | |
| Uncle Howie | |
| " Glenwood motherfuckin' Projects, that was the fuckin' place man. Fuckin' | |
| crack smoking all night. Cookin' it up, sellin' C4, weapons, blowguns, every | |
| motherfuckin' thing what a fuckin' rush. We were cookin' the shit up, an' | |
| I smoked it up an' the Jamaicans man, they came back, fuckin' torched the | |
| place, with me motherfuckin' in it! I couldn' t get out the fuckin | |
| apartment, they locked me in, I had to go out the fuckin window, it was | |
| fuckin' dynamite!" | |
| Ill Bill | |
| Ill Bill lost sanity lost humanity | |
| Lost in a maze of purple haze, cannabis sativa spit ether violently | |
| Very vociferous victorious hotter than a crematorium I' ll kill all of you | |
| Kill you motherfuck you Drop dead faggit it' s the dragon | |
| . 44 Magnum splatter you in front of your family | |
| My fire arms, never be tired up in the air | |
| Throw a bullet up in each eye an' one in ya ear | |
| I speak heroin, breathe weed, sniff cocaine | |
| Tweaked levels when I peeped Courtney kill Cobain | |
| We got the whole world scratching they heads | |
| Life is like a highjacked airliner, but we managed to win | |
| Back to the crib, breakin up the cats in the brig | |
| Havin a bitch flashin the tits While you crashing the whip | |
| Laughin at hoes, taking fakerss to amateur flicks | |
| While the Ill Bill albums kidnapping your kids | |
| Chorus Ill Bill x2 | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into ' Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, PopPop three in ya brain | |
| Necro | |
| I get impatient like a long bid get so vexed I hit the wrong kid | |
| Shit gets awkward, like I' m on a drug an' I can' t get off it | |
| Blank out rip a shank out | |
| Treat you like Vietcong hit you like the weed in a bong | |
| Your pussy like a Gstring or thong | |
| You think I' m sick? Fucked up? Oh am I? | |
| You think you can' t die? | |
| Don' t think your crazy cuz a years passed by | |
| Beat you down with my fuckin' hands tied | |
| Now change your attitude, before you get cracked from different latitudes | |
| By kids that are mad at you they expect gratitude | |
| I' ll strike a foe even if you don' t know me you better act like you know | |
| Especially if you' re soft I' ve earned my stripes like Schwarzkopf | |
| The gun I bust off will tear through your clothes like a moth | |
| Your sloppy, cuz you start beef, and cop please, but not me | |
| Chorus Ill Bill x2 | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into ' Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, PopPop three in ya brain | |
| Goretex | |
| I rock sickening raps like Woody Allen flares beach hats | |
| A John Hinckley run up on politicians with ski caps | |
| Laser weapons I bleed coke, happiness is like a warm gun | |
| Run in ya crib slitting ya G' s throat | |
| Cruise the block, whippin' uzi' s an' pop | |
| Loosin the cops, whether new lots or zooming through Watts | |
| The newest space suite, love rocking titties like grapefruits | |
| Phase two Rastaice inverted " HeyZeus" Jesus | |
| I' m up in fat burger bag some codeine | |
| So clean, pinstripe gat runners are Old G' s | |
| serving the fiends crack, dope and weed | |
| Glenwood projects we living the American dream | |
| Screaming " hey pelican" trains of coke on my cock | |
| Handle bars like " Vivica" with nipples and crotch | |
| We toured drivebys on the mongoose with glocks | |
| This ain' t rhetorical, the story gets worse you get shot | |
| Chorus Ill Bill x2 | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into ' Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, PopPop three in ya brain |
| zuò qǔ : Braunstein, Braunstein ... | |
| Uncle Howie | |
| " Glenwood motherfuckin' Projects, that was the fuckin' place man. Fuckin' | |
| crack smoking all night. Cookin' it up, sellin' C4, weapons, blowguns, every | |
| motherfuckin' thing what a fuckin' rush. We were cookin' the shit up, an' | |
| I smoked it up an' the Jamaicans man, they came back, fuckin' torched the | |
| place, with me motherfuckin' in it! I couldn' t get out the fuckin | |
| apartment, they locked me in, I had to go out the fuckin window, it was | |
| fuckin' dynamite!" | |
| Ill Bill | |
| Ill Bill lost sanity lost humanity | |
| Lost in a maze of purple haze, cannabis sativa spit ether violently | |
| Very vociferous victorious hotter than a crematorium I' ll kill all of you | |
| Kill you motherfuck you Drop dead faggit it' s the dragon | |
| . 44 Magnum splatter you in front of your family | |
| My fire arms, never be tired up in the air | |
| Throw a bullet up in each eye an' one in ya ear | |
| I speak heroin, breathe weed, sniff cocaine | |
| Tweaked levels when I peeped Courtney kill Cobain | |
| We got the whole world scratching they heads | |
| Life is like a highjacked airliner, but we managed to win | |
| Back to the crib, breakin up the cats in the brig | |
| Havin a bitch flashin the tits While you crashing the whip | |
| Laughin at hoes, taking fakerss to amateur flicks | |
| While the Ill Bill albums kidnapping your kids | |
| Chorus Ill Bill x2 | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into ' Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, PopPop three in ya brain | |
| Necro | |
| I get impatient like a long bid get so vexed I hit the wrong kid | |
| Shit gets awkward, like I' m on a drug an' I can' t get off it | |
| Blank out rip a shank out | |
| Treat you like Vietcong hit you like the weed in a bong | |
| Your pussy like a Gstring or thong | |
| You think I' m sick? Fucked up? Oh am I? | |
| You think you can' t die? | |
| Don' t think your crazy cuz a years passed by | |
| Beat you down with my fuckin' hands tied | |
| Now change your attitude, before you get cracked from different latitudes | |
| By kids that are mad at you they expect gratitude | |
| I' ll strike a foe even if you don' t know me you better act like you know | |
| Especially if you' re soft I' ve earned my stripes like Schwarzkopf | |
| The gun I bust off will tear through your clothes like a moth | |
| Your sloppy, cuz you start beef, and cop please, but not me | |
| Chorus Ill Bill x2 | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into ' Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, PopPop three in ya brain | |
| Goretex | |
| I rock sickening raps like Woody Allen flares beach hats | |
| A John Hinckley run up on politicians with ski caps | |
| Laser weapons I bleed coke, happiness is like a warm gun | |
| Run in ya crib slitting ya G' s throat | |
| Cruise the block, whippin' uzi' s an' pop | |
| Loosin the cops, whether new lots or zooming through Watts | |
| The newest space suite, love rocking titties like grapefruits | |
| Phase two Rastaice inverted " HeyZeus" Jesus | |
| I' m up in fat burger bag some codeine | |
| So clean, pinstripe gat runners are Old G' s | |
| serving the fiends crack, dope and weed | |
| Glenwood projects we living the American dream | |
| Screaming " hey pelican" trains of coke on my cock | |
| Handle bars like " Vivica" with nipples and crotch | |
| We toured drivebys on the mongoose with glocks | |
| This ain' t rhetorical, the story gets worse you get shot | |
| Chorus Ill Bill x2 | |
| I put the D into Drugs an' the G into Guns | |
| I put the D into Dubs an' the T into Thugs | |
| I put the C into ' Caine an' the P into Pain | |
| The G into Game, PopPop three in ya brain |
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