Clipse, Pharrell - Bodysnatchers lyrics

Yeah, yeah what y'all wanna do?
What y'all wanna do? C-l, ip, s-e, n-e-r-d
What y'all wanna do?

My coke money's in cleaners
Give it a fresh rinse
Jap bitch wit the tech, first line of defense
Pullin' up in the Ac', black shit with dents
Test our aim
We'll be speaking your name in past tense
Dress have you stressed till
All black the scheme
Chest poor formation when I'm wit my team
Stand on the back line, rope fit for kings
How we floss, high gloss
We living through your dreams
Death before dishonor, cut by katana
Play while I lay, bathhouse Tijuana
Getting fucked by Lana, hoes in the sauna
Like her ass though
But her head was the trauma
Arrogant for a reason, sex all season
Two chicks, one dick, the odds are uneven
Niggas die for treason, heart stop beating
Hang em from the lightpoles wintertime
When it's freezing take the safety off lock
Forty cali' chrome cock
All I wanna hear, pows and pops
Send your last two breaths
'fore your breathin stop
Bodysnatch you, whether it's rhythm or ones
Bodysnatch you, whether grenade or guns
Yo to all of my rivals
Hold you bitches liable
When it's time I'm pulling out
My nine from the Bible

I'ma catch your body tonight (tonight)
Give a fuck about the blue light (blue light)
Like you can't get debate the rhythm
(can't wait to get him)
I'ma snatch your body tonight (tonight)

Yo, Hell Hath No Fury, look at my jewelry
Blew the fuck out like Jesus gave it to me
Virginia's where my spot be, NSX car keys
Don't try to take em, I'm twin Glock-ly
Eat you like broccoli, then spit the stems
Description, Liberace, fit's the gems
Was six when I traveled
The young black Pharrell
Walk you out your crib wit
Your lips around the barrel
Niggas wanna murder me, dirty me
Jesus died and rose at
The age of thirty-three
Resurrection bitch, my protection bitch
Your head's about to have the
Devil's numbers etched in, bitch
There's that bitch Annie
With the eyes that sandy
Girl of the supplier's brother, named Manny
Glock many tecs so security could scan me
Hit of the year, I better get a street Grammy
It's hot in this back seat, slut bitch fan me
There's that nigga, dressed in Miami
The voice of Tammy Lucas means
I'm gon shoot this heater
And mack entire crews like Reba
My nigga Q-Ball
Got eighty rounds to do y'all
Got a "weight" problem
Can't wait to get to y'all
A genie is blasphemous, anthraxous
And who makes money, cleaning money
Through taxes?

You can catch me in the back of the club
Wit a buzz
Wilding out frivolous, it's about ten of us
Cats they envy us, wanna bust
Either them or us what a rush when they make
Attempts to finish us
Can't diminish us, our plan too sinister
When it's all done and said
You in the need of ministers
I'm the nigga that you fear
For wetting you up
Make you feel like everything's love
And setting you up
We blown up, and these blocks got em sewn up
Niggas talking funny on my cell
Hang the phone up chicks wit the blunts
Pull the pump shotty outta your bunk
Body in a slump, either way, making em jump
We got pretty cars, key to the city ours
We the type to get a free lap dance
In titty bars
Y'all floss, nah, we flaunt like drugs ours
Sky's the limit, so we fly and touch stars
Fuck y'all, no good full of hate niggas
Rush up in your spot
Where my where the cake niggas
Break niggas, wit the heat, penetrate niggas
And move it down south like
My out of state niggas
Ill right? hit you wit two
Now what it feel like?
Looking like some TV shit
But this is real life
Fuck, we got pies to slice, jewels to ice
Feel the wrath of this Clipse shit
Lose your life