Текст песни Ghost Of Fillmoe

I like your mind, your body, your soul, your figure Catch ya, hold ya, squeeze you like a trigger Mind full of rap gun powder, it's a habit Shootin' like Elmer Fudd at the screwy rabbit From pennies to nickels, from dimes in the rhyme Get your paint brush and line your design It might be a little bitter on top of Sugar Hill But the ones that got killed say it's real on the field From the sky Ghost of Filmoe, what