Pete & Bas – Longthorne Shotgun Lyrics

Pete & Bas – Longthorne Shotgun Lyrics

White hot stepper, dripping in black leather
Heat stay tucked, never mind cold weather
Bang whenever, your salt get peppered
Sight get turned black and white like checkers
Blacks and whites in the batch and it’s two tone suits on the boys
Black belts like judo
Get slapped down flat, no Uno
Feds out guessing who done it, just like Cluedo

Shotgun pressed on the chest for the kickback
Chat shit, get boxed up like a Tic Tac (Tic tac, tic tac)
I fill a fella up with a Big Mac
Lick shots, belly get split like six pack (Six pack, six pack)
I’m in the fast lane, chicks in the back on the bubble with the Chardonnay (Chardonnay)
I made it through the dark days
Phantom, looking at the roof you can stargaze

Bright lights pinging off the watch ’cause it’s diamond
Tick tock, clock him with impeccable timing
Hop in the whip at the first sight of sirens
Back to the pub, vod’ sod’ with the lime in
Fill another cup, yeah lemme sink that
Home run, knock him out the park when I swing bats
Split him in the middle like a Kit Kat
Spliff rolled, drink poured
Lord, can I kick back?

Kick back doesn’t work well with the work ethic
I’ve been through the dirt and I learnt lessons
Went from a dinger with the dents in
Now I got vents in the bonnet and it’s pearlescent
Skirt in the dark like a Wiccan
Ripe for the picking
Fried like a chicken
He could have been alive but he’s kicking the bucket
Down to the bone finger licking

Break dinner plates on the face of a chump
Then I’m breaking his bread and I’m taking a chunk
I ain’t never leave a trace ’cause I did him up freehand
Gloves on, they ain’t getting prints off of these hands
Meat and veg on a platter
The wads got thicker then the belly got fatter
When the feds come knocking at the door for the same old
I’ma just knock him out flat, no chatter

Double chuffing a blunt
Chugging the Bombay
John Wayne gate when I’m stepping on the runway
Six shot cut down Winnie for the gun play
Pray for my sins in the church on a Sunday
Spill a man’s beans, I’m a drunk chef
Close cut shaving his dome like a monks head
Bloodshed taste for the flesh, I’m undead
Sleep best when I’m locked up in a bunk bed

Hop, skip and a jump, pass the pump
Ch-ch-ch-ch bow
Let his body slump in the pub garden
Sit and finish my Guinness, top of the morning
The first flight home, then I’m gone and I’m laughing
Smiling and creasing, he’s folded and leaking
I’ve tried to control him, I ought to delete him
Alive in the morning and dead by the evening
I’m taking him home ’cause the pigs need feeding

Glide when I walk, make money when I talk
No time for the pork, outlined in the chalk
White lines on a board, if you need it you call me
Three for an hundred, same old story
Four fifty, chopped by the pound
Slapped in the wraps and that’s fifteen grand
Fifteen large for the longthorne shotgun I shot from, that’s an expensive round
(Nine One)

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