Super Chron Flight Brothers - Bob Hope lyrics

[Hook: Privilege] I'm sitting in my seat, pondering all these sources, spinning Through my head, trying to make the right decision Not winning yet, not yet Getting it like I'm trying to be having it Cut life like the proverbial “it,” you take a stab at ‘em [Verse 1: Privilege] Serrated side slicing cheeseburger bison For meat that tender they murdered old man Tyson Met the Mrs, mangled her muff, mashed her hymen Strung intestines on their shoulder as they claim artistic license Martyrs silence taking place (shhhh...) Spark flies, deceit and rage They walk away with the guns of their kids like we don't play I see potential I.E.Ds all around me Sons you'll see the barrel of this gun 'til I see safety And if I have to bust your face it's f** your face I do what my C.O. says, forget Dead Prez My boss is the real one You got bars and mics I'm holding stars and stripes Around your neck, ‘til you're seeing lights At the end of tunnels, colored white Another wasted night, another temple's thieved Some more lambs bread, a log's bottom leaf, I said [Hook: Privilege] [Billy Woods] And let me a**ure you parishioners that today is indeed a difficult day to be your pastor, as we observe the funeral of yet another of our community's black men And on a day like today one is tempted to ask, “Where was God? Where is hope?” Well brother Whetstone, I a**ure you you will not find hope in the g-string of your favorite stripper at the penthouse club at 2311 Georgia Avenue Sister Wear, I a**ure you hope will not come on immediately following the Young & The Restless on Thursday mornings [Watching that bullsh**!] And brother Mercy, I see you in the back there; hope is not something you are gonna find at the bottom of that 22 ounce bottle of malt liquor beer And as for you brother Woods, I a**ure you try as you might, you will never balance hope on your triple beam scale [Verse 2: Billy Woods] She ain't returning calls, I think I'm getting boomerang I ain't stupid dog but it ain't hit me ‘til the gavel rang (bang bang!) Slip up and be behind those walls Continents of dirt and grime, put in work like Kalashnikov Crime and Punishment, I took it as a job Raskolnikov put through the time You could say he dropped a dime Or better yet a laundry load of change Suit and tie secured, I only need one juror But I can feel those flames, smell that brimstone I don't think I can beat this on appeal homes Prisoner of war, law popped, four dicks, Levenworth, ain't my type of tour Habeas corpus was 300 bars, no chorus So many trees a n***a couldn't see the forest A lot of fingers is crossed for us holding weight enormous Like ‘Who you telling?' The bag ain't open but yeah that's what you smelling Rappers gobbling watermelon Like that's a new jump off A fistful of dollars, ain't no telling hoss Ain't that the damn truth No time to bullsh** in that damn booth Can you blame me? The girl was so damn cute And a fan of the Overproof Wray and Nephew, we don't need no water They got me on tape, I don't need no lawyer And I don't even f**ing care who spilled those goyas We had these blocks like Dikembe and Alonzo on the Hoyas And still ain't get the title Spit on my palm, hand on the Bible I solemnly swear to see you all in Hell Took the L in alphabet city: FBI, DEA, NYPD, DOC, get me?