Lyrical Breakdown of Bring Death To Em - A Journey through Words and Rhymes
Welcome to the detailed analysis of "Bring Death To Em" on Lazyjot. Here, we unravel the lyrical complexity and artistic brilliance that define this iconic song.
- Lyric Overview: Witness how Fabolous weaves words into powerful emotions and vivid imagery. From intricate rhyme schemes to compelling storytelling, every line in "Bring Death To Em" is a testament to masterful songwriting.
- Rhyme and Rhythm Analysis: Our Lazyjot editor highlights the ingenious use of multi-syllabic rhymes and the rhythm pattern that Fabolous employs. Understand the construction of each verse and how it contributes to the song's overall impact.
- Syllable Pattern Insights: Dive deeper into the structural elements of the lyrics. See how the syllable count varies across the song, adding a unique rhythm and flow to Fabolous's narrative.
This lyrical analysis of "Bring Death To Em" not only celebrates Fabolous's artistic prowess but also serves as an educational tool for aspiring songwriters. If this analysis inspires you and you'd like to see your own songs analyzed in this way, join the Lazyjot community. Register at Lazyjot and start exploring the full potential of your lyrical creativity. Turn your thoughts into rhymes and your rhymes into songs with Lazyjot!
Funeral in the house
I bring death to em
Funeral in the house
I bring death to em
Funeral in the house
He bring death to em
Funeral in the house
Dis the flow that put niggas on their death bed
And make them bitches blow they whistle
Give me ref head
Somebody call "9-1-1" like 'Clef said
(Be)Fo(re) my man's and them Blackout... Meth Red
Dis the flow that put niggas on their death bed
And make them bitches blow the whistle
Give me ref head
Somebody call "9-1-1" like 'Clef said
(Be)Fo(re) my man's and them Blackout... Meth Red
The newspaper say young rapper left dead
The only suspect they have is young funeral
He might be on his goony prowl
Soldiers put him up in the air
George Clooney style
Slow motion for me
Soulja Slim, Juvenile
Don't shit move
A nigga can't move his bowels
Or catch it like Larry Fitzgerald
Kurt Warner bullets comin out the 5ths bureau
Baby I'm a make it
My shit's thorough
You dick shootin blanks
Y'all shit's sterile
The competition need help
Of course I care homie
But first lay in this box and cross your hands for me
Fanbase-killer, blame your loss of fans on me
I triple what you Cs (see) like Ross' man homie
Niggas get to New York
With losses, D'Antoni
You pick the place, everybody cross this land on me
I can't endorse or stand phonies
Unless we arm wrestle, never force my hand homie
The chrome heart shades cost a grand only
The white girl bought that Porsche dan [? ] for me
Sweeter than Georgia peaches
I get brain from gorgeous teachers
Funeral in the house no mortgage either
Any competition he see the boy just ethers
I'm a Boston George's reefer
July if you say I ain't hotter than August weether
I mean weather, you can't see me
I mean ever... EVER EVER
Andre 3-G
Gucci print G-G
Clean ice, neck full of frozen Fiji
Been in the game long as Mario, Luigi
No Juvenile, Wayne, Turk or BG
I'm still Hot Boys
But it's Stutta gang Jack (Fi-di-di-di
You bang right the first time they don't bang back
Niggas can't ball like me they're quickly nearing H.O.R.S.E
I bring death (deaf) to em
No hearing loss