Dabbla - Dirt Cloud lyrics

Sort it Out Come on man sort it out! Fire! Ha, yeah Ya see (Verse 1 – Dabbla & Jam Baxter) We've been running through the same dark corridors You don't wanna spar with a style that'll body yours What you try'na holla for We ain't on the same page Fronting on the main stage, crying that the games changed This girls like damn he's got suttin to do with suttin I guess I better do everything in my power to f** him Man if jealously was edible she'd fill a whole carriage On the next train to no where stacking that baggage Dealing with all sorts of longingness Prominence, bopping and moving the futures ominous Synonymous brainwaves is coming to you live from the bottomless pit Signed anonymous Welcome to the Dead Player Members Club Countless swinging nooses and the bruises and the flesh and guts Never look, losing life in seconds son and pressure guts Cerebellum swelling up (What?) Tell ‘em to remember us! (Hook x2) I swear down, it's like every time we turn round Everything is burnt down, when the dust settle from the dirt cloud Shut up! Dead Players all up in your pantry Frankly f** ‘em, my sentiments exactly (Verse 2 – Dabbla & Jam Baxter) Harpoons to you sardines, leaking to your dark jeans Me, I'll be higher than Giraffe lean Soon to be amazingly explicit, is it sh**s getting stranger by the minute Just when I thought I sniffed a line in every cubicle in town I found myself in Hell's gents ramming bugle in my snout Super human sputa infusing in the mouth Grab a soup spill students, glew ‘em to the ground That's right, it's that quick fire get high Run along a zip wire, hating on because we just a bit fly Taking any way you wanna send ‘em, end ‘em DPC initials are the emblem Yeah, deflect the attention The cris king corner shon Pickled in his juice getting loose with a snorkel on And the list of dizzy heights that I've fallen from Form a long path for the master to walk along (Hook x2) (Verse 3 – Dabbla & Jam Baxter) Slicker than owl sh**, devour sh** sh** that I shouldn't come out with Should low it, ain't a fan that can out spit the outfit Look at them all getting nostalgic about it Yeah loud and nostalgia I bounced out of town and found them all drowning in sauerkraut salsa Heads buried under ground and hung around their shoulder blades Thin tin medals from a long lost golden age Rappers banging on about the mash need to stop it Thinking like a pimp trying to maximise their profit Its hard to tell the truth, what you don't seem to realise is you're the prostitute And they've got you in the their pocket As long as I'm equip with a middle finger to hold aloft A tall gla** of everything will surely shake the vultures off Hold the clock, wait it's kicking in we're kicking out Last seen cramming all my winnings in my grinning mouth (Hook x2)