paroles de chanson Bring the Pain - Method Man

Basically
Can't fuck with me

I came to bring the pain hardcore from the brain
Let's go inside my astral plane
Find out my mental, based on instrumental
Records, hey, so I can write monumental
Methods, I'm not the king
But niggas is decaf, I stick 'em for the cream
Check it, just how deep can shit get
Deep as the abyss and brothers is mad, fish accept it

In your Cross Colour clothes, you've crossed over
Then got Totally Krossed Out and Kris Krossed
Who the boss? Niggas get tossed to the side
And I'm the dark side of the Force
Of course it's the Method, Man from the Wu-Tang Clan
I be hectic, and comin' for the head piece, protect it
Fuck it, two tears in a bucket
Niggas want the ruckus
Bustin' at me, bruh, now bust it

Styles, I gets buckwild
Method Man on some shit, pullin' niggas files, I'm sick
Insane, crazy, driving Miss Daisy
Out her fucking mind, now I got mine, I'm Swayze

Is it real, son, is it really real, son?
Let me know it's real, son, if it's really real
Something I could feel, son, load it up and kill one
Want it raw deal, son, if it's really real, yeah, uh

When I was a likle stereo (stereo)
I listen to some Champion (Champion)
I always wondered (wondered)
When I will be di number one (Tical)
And now yuh listen to di Gorgon (Gorgon)
And a Gorgon sound a Rein
An' any jump and come tes' mi (test me)
Mi a-go lick out dem brain (it's like that)

Brothers wanna hang with the Meth, bring the rope
The only way you'll hang is by the neck
Nigga, bolt off the set, comin' to your projects
Take it as a threat, better yet it's a promise
Comin' from a vet on some old Vietnam shit
Nigga, you can bet your bottom dollar, hey, I bomb shit
And it's gonna get even worse, word to God
It's the Wu comin' through, stickin' niggas for they garments

Movin' on your left, southpaw, Mr. Meth
Came to represent and carve my name in your chest
You can come test, realize you're no contest
Son, I'm the gun that won that old Wild West
Quick on the draw with my hands on the four-
Nine-three-eleven with the rugged rhymes galore
Check it, 'cause I think not when this hip-hops like proper
Rhymes be the proof while I'm drinkin' 90 proof

Huh, vodka, no OJ, no straw
When you give it to me, ayy, give it to me raw
I've learned that when you drink Absolut straight it burns
Enough to give my chest hairs a perm
I don't need a chemical blow to pull a ho
All I need is Chemical Bank to pay the roll

What, basically that, Meth-Tical, '94 style
(Northern spicy brown mustard hoes, word up, we be hazardous)
We have to stick you

Is it real, son, is it really real, son? (Motherfucker, I'll fuckin')
Let me know it's real, son, if it's really real
Something I could feel, son, load it up and kill one
Want it raw deal, son, if it's really real

I'll fuckin', I'll fuckin' cut your kneecaps off
And make you kneel at some staircase, piss
I'll fuckin' cut your eyelids off and feed you nothin' but sleepin' pills
Get yours, motherfucker
So fuck the ho, fuck the ho