Terror Death Camp Lyrics - Well Done - Statik Selektah & Action Bronson

Queens, New York 

Flushing shit 

(We back again) 

That's right 

Yo 

Sour smoke out the nasal 

The Pad Thai noodle topped off with basil 

Sistine Chapel rapper, I'm here to blaze you 

Pop off material, get laid up and sprayed up 

Just like arterial 

Clementine nine, dripping venereal 

Linguine linguistics that left my verbal lesser saucy 

Send a message, leave you sleeping next to headless horsey 

Play the plaintiff, I'mma slide off to prior engagements 

Let you die in the basement 

Toast wine from the time of the ancient- 

Turkish warriors, cobblestones in Macedonia 

Albanians in Shkup, never living by the book 

We fill the jails in France, Uzes and Italy 

Never do dirt in our own land 

That shit's forbidden, G 

Hoxha singing from the top of the Xhamia 

Pickled peppers at the picnic table 

Feta cheese, perfect Flia 

Straight outta Dukagjin 

One of the illest places 

No one's smiling 

There's only drunken men with killer faces 

I'm known for simmering the mean gravy 

Gleam crazy, my mind's hazy 

New York made me 

The most official, to holster pistol 

Trim the fat, scrape the gristle 

Meyhem Lauren will make your family miss you 

I'll gladly press the trigger button 

If you press an issue 

Whether it's beef or beats 

I try to make a casket fit you 

We'll fuck you up then fuck you up 

And then come back to get you 

And do that two more times 

We call that shit a triple triple 

My flow is typhoon rap, it's deeper than an ocean ripple 

Our hollow tips will hit you 

Leave you with an altered nipple 

Slumped over saying "Lord, please have mercy" 

Or play the G, now we made hot flames burst me 

Queens veteran, dressed like tennis men 

Back block medicine, slap chop venison 

Knock, knock, let us in 

My whole clique's equipped to shoot though 

My army got more fucking arms than a can of pulpo 

Brownsville's Jesus, white and blue Adidas 

Got more knowledge than them Poor Righteous Teachers 

Clarence Smith, Stan Smith, 13X's 

Some will overstand but common men never receive the message 

Concepts like I'm Frank Butcher 

Neighborhood pusher, 62's through ya sub woofer 

Unca nunca for the pitbulls with red noses 

Wet bogies dipped in shit to stop bodies from decomposing 

Cool, calm and collected 

Keep my composure 

All my business in black and white like negative exposures 

Keep a Polaroid for the posers 

A picture's worth a thousand words 

So lock and load up 

You don't know me from a hole in a commode, bruh 

I am the shit, just ask your bitch 

I bet she know, yup 

It's St. Maffew 

Truffles in that duffle 

Princess in the catsuit