paroles de chanson Bloody Samurai - Thea Van Seijen , Black Knights
Bloody
samurai,
my
feet
will
never
die
Bloody
samurai,
my
sword
will
never
die
Yeah,
I′m
like
daredevils,
I
dare
devils
to
take
it
to
that
level
Make
'em
dig
they
own
grave,
with
they
own
shovels
Sharpshooter
drop
helicopters,
black
out
shadows
Cause
when
it′s
time
to
ride,
it's
like
pedal
to
the
metal
Full
fledged,
beat
suicidal,
leave
holes
with
skull
heads
Hit
your
cult
for
your
vote,
leave
'em
all
dead
And
some,
Knights
like
games,
plus
handsome
Hoes
hold
me
ransom,
you
mad
and
throw
tantrums
Seven
braids
like
Samson,
strength
of
Jobe
Since
these
niggas
wanna
trip,
I
make
it
all
unfold
Didn′t
choose
the
genie,
didn′t
choose
the
leprechaun
Niggas
better
watch
the
grapes,
like
they
stepping
on
Thinking
it's
a
game,
I
rose
him,
now
your
ass
is
frozen
Nuclear
explosion,
we
straight
West
Coasting
I
was
born
as
a
soldier,
and
I′ll
fight
in
a
field
I'll
run
like
a
hunter,
and
I′ll
die
in
the
field
The
street
apostle
with
Roscoe's,
that′ll
burn
flesh
off
your
fossil
Make
you
suck
on
that
nozzle,
'fore
you
swallow
these
hollows
Clutching
a
bottle,
yeah,
I'm
a
hard
act
to
follow
Nigga,
I
don′t
write
raps,
little
homey,
I
write
novels
Every
chapter
I
capture,
the
mind
of
millions
When
I
slang
raps
like
crack,
to
the
women
and
children
Bring
down
the
building,
crime
wars,
oh
what
a
feeling
Feels
good
like
I′m
puffing
on
that
sticky
chameleon
The
street
villain,
made
most
of
his
money
from
drug
dealing
It's
rules
to
the
game,
trust
nobody
that′s
squealing
Cause
snitching
is
a
pet
peeve,
like
a
bitch
with
a
bad
weave
It's
not
honor
amongst
thieves,
nigga
deal
with
greed
I′m
from
a
breed
of
real
killas,
that's
cutthroat
That′ll
front
you
to
work
and
kill
you
if
a
buck
short
Bloodsport,
flick
you
like
the
butt
of
my
Newport
Or
with
the
butt
of
my
gun,
take
that,
nigga,
run
I
come
to
stop
the
hollering
and
screaming,
blaow
Stop
screaming,
make
a
nigga
wish
he
still
dreaming
Since
appearing
against
a
ninja,
taught
him
barbarianism
South
Central
mentalism,
like
the
local
news
on
the
local
high
school
For
all
this
realism,
don't
let
all
the
whites
go
there
Cause
all
the
whites'll
go
there,
have
′em
all
braiding
they
hair
And
having
tattoos,
and
street
numbers
instead
of
good
grades
from
school
It′s
like
ridicule,
and
what
would
Jesus
do?
If
he
was
standing
at
apartment,
he
was
beeping
with
that
dizzle
Like
a
hole
ain't
enough
to
end
all
ridicule
But
a
ho′ll
get
real
holy
enough
to
preach
and
end
you
If
you
win,
I'll
tell
you
where
to
find
the
number
two
If
I
win,
I
have
your
head
Do
we
have
a
deal?
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