Letra de Salsa


Letra de Salsa de 311
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Letra de SALSA de 311.

( 311 )

We were born in the seventies
the rippin' and rhyming and brethren, see
we're filling, taste great
in the old school, i was eight
for the new school, i was late
but in high school, i was debate
i rate in the great state of california
i'm warning ya
je vais a la plage parce que le guignol est chouette!
i kick nonsense in french, tasty like crepe suzette
i bet you're feeling famished for a 311 sandwich not the whack dj's that i'm a damage
i like a beat that's unique and, yes, i like my head zooming
and in my continental, you know that shit's booming
with the diamond in the back, suicide doors
you can look from here to eternity
and never receive your morsel
Another tale of ordinary madness:
the girl who gave you her sex i heard was homeless, say
all i really wanna is to feel nirvana
won't you take me tonight and we just might find
a bottle of wine and feel our nasty nature
your tongue lickin' up my tongue
your radio pickin' up a smoky, jazz love song madness becomes you even though you're
livin' life, it's hard to exist when you're tempted
by flesh, you wanna bust through
beautiful legs in the bar, there is poetry
she bends and suspends and her ass
is a marvelous thing
a dance dancin' at a club the hereafter
who can't really dance but that doesn't really matter
and she won't hear applause
'cuz your drunk and lost
all light is gone
your arms spread like a cross
and you're dreaming that the world
will soon fall apart
topless girl in your gaze which is hazy
takes your dollar in the gutter without cigarettes
or wine you're hung over i was warned of your normal
behavior and felt my life was too short to consider your whack self
it's like this when you dip down
and you are boxin'
reeling against the ropes and you
face some young mexican
you're scrappin' your neck gets
snapped back, your nose have bled
you're thinkin' about a comeback
but you're takin' it to the head
you little bastard, better watch your back
'cause we're after your punk ass
by god, we're gonna jack it
your journey is small time, and your show is over
you're 'bout as lucky as a three leaf clover
and you're older, ho bag sceezer in her droopy, saggy skin
who thought she was a model, but, in truth, a never-has-been
you both are fools, you and your cheap rooms, too
the cigar biting your lips the way love used to