Dead Players - Fatman lyrics

[Verse 1 - Jam Baxter] Tunnel under burning skin and build a yard of boiling blood I'm pointing up the screaming jets of boiling blubber soiling us You're pretty short of choices bruv and down with eight of minor trends The spiral steps to loserville ignited in a firey breath So would I leave whilst they wait tumbling I'm a beast in case you were wondering Just incase your encased in a rumbling earthquake, I bought a spade and a plunger in But I ain't gonna dig that deep just to let you man in a bin bag breathe Spread that powder, press that now star See how far can a big bag reach To the edge of human reasons spilling down the sides Spit a stream of glue and sick, illusion dripping out my eyes Bring a couple gallons of Chiraz and let me drown in wine Master of a crowd of flies, one of many crowns of mine See the rest, they're hung from the ceiling All set for a wondrous evening, leave in a deep blue sea be stranding Move to the bank with somebody's feeding Each bar leaves somebody grieving, tear duct stains on a bright red floor More lick of varnish, churned in the carnage Earth in a jar in a hi-tec court [Hook] Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players [Verse 2] Eggs and omelettes are like my runnies on this So who's been running the longest You're gonna need an orthodontist to knock your teeth out The man who holds beats for hostage And it's all out war now, ready for the call out Then I bring the fire to the foreground To the riddim of the wall now, kick another door down Got 'em on the shore looking worn out Stomp on the beat like I own it, make you wanna jump out your seat now don't it? Talking about out grown it, blown it, bullet with the wrong components I ain't even tryna make words rhyme, got it on repeat now you heard me the first time Bruddas get blurred in the third eye Me? I be chilling on the beach like my birth sign Life line guillotine, refried chilli bean straight from the Philippines Broad daylight but it's still a dream, k**er fiend dealing with a supreme philistine Chilling in a stretched out limousine, in a scene rolling with the weed and the nicotine Tryna keep it clean but you know the team, in it for the crack like Pete from the Libertines Shoulda been a DJ, cut 'em into pieces, feast on the replay My lifes not a movie, it's more like a film where everybody dies like D-Day Yeah, yeah I know I probably shouldn't say that but it beats that usual cliche So you can rewind the rhyme for the playback but I'm tryna get my leg up foshezay [Hook] Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players [Verse 3] (Jam Baxter) Look, who fills your head full of conked out pensioners Cobwebs, dentures and monged out replicas Lecherous leaches, crack den regulars, festering flee pits, blood splattered exodus Yeah, guilty as charged Shovelling them in while the waste guys works I'll be jamming at the back in the filthiest garms, on a tripped out rifle and same bra** coutch What, they're pissed cause I live life lucid Dead off my demons, slip my nooses Cliff dive into a riptide, heart in my windpipe Sparking a king size zootage, what's it been like since I booted? Now your life plots been diluted and sold for a pence on a back street corner Essential, spitting that midnight music (Dabbla) Choose your weapon, I'm a slice like a ginsu splitting MC's in a second When I squeeze it leaves an impression, nothing but (fire!) when I breeze in a session I be billing up cheese in the dress room, you be counting your P's on your fingers I be doing what I need to get the job done, you be fronting on the beat 'bout binges Doors off hinges, foreigners talking in English, USAers coming like ninjas Make it hot for you b**hes, got them in stitches, can I get a (bup!) and a witness Coming to you live from the trenches, widen your senses Got more column for your inches (Dead Players!) all up in your old dears minges but thats not what the ting is [Hook] Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players, Players Dead, Dead, Players Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Players