Lyrics atlas – Peddler’s Blues
Text:
Randy Newman — «Pretty Boy»:
Have we got a tough guy here?
Have we got a tough guy from the street?
Please don’t hurt no one
And his cute little chicken shit hat
And his cute little chicken shit girlfriends
Ridin’ along in back
Atlas:
I’m out in babylon bustin my gun, blastin yo ghetto
With my fake sound, fuckin for fun, killin children
On my way down, weighin a ton. On these streets I’m so
Heavy that I can’t stand up. Feels like my neck is in a
Yoke tied to coke, cold flowin for the cash crop
Business as per usual. This shit ain’t go’n ever stop
Bakin soda’s open some niggas’ll have to die
You fuckin with my money your mother might have to cry
Black tears. My will shakes spears and spear chuckers gonna
Kick the bucket if they think of fuckin with my duckets
Life is worth a diamond or maybe a private island
Whatever to keep me smilin and my woman lookin fly
Get you high and be your downfall, be your last call in the
Middle of the night for a pound of that white. I’ll
Bring you that big fish. Close your eyes and make a wish
And taste the killer’s kiss, sweet bavarian barium
Carry them to the other side as the crow flies
The temple virgin cries as I baptize her holy thighs
Water in your eyes, your nose is the desert floor
The oil slick snakes in my belly cry baby give me more
My yellow cake bake your city to a flake of snow & ash
Come and get a taste of this terrifying, death-spewing
Money-flavored, dust-covered angel from the underworld
Twirl a girl down by the river, make her shiver with
Mycoal hollow eyes. Watch the water rise
The streets are Himalayan, more snow than the highest peaks
More rocky than Balboa, more gritty than dirty beats
I’m Primo the way I cut it, I’m comin in under budget
I triple back my stack. You come close, but couldn’t touch it
Fuck it. I’m done talkin, you done heard enough
Stack your ones, put your guns up and call my bluff