Listen to BLOW YA TRUMPET (feat. Knucks, Ghetts, Akala & Kojey Radical) by Swindle

BLOW YA TRUMPET (feat. Knucks, Ghetts, Akala & Kojey Radical)

Swindle

Hip-Hop/Rap

Apple Music Note

OVERVIEW

LYRICS

Featured In

Listen to THE NEW WORLD by Swindle

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Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS

Swindle

Programming

Cameron Palmer

Synthesizer

Knucks

Vocals

Ghetts

Vocals

Akala

Vocals

Kojey Radical

Vocals

Dayna Fisher

Bass Guitar

Rashaan Brown

Guitar

Neil Waters

Trumpet

Trevor Mires

Trombone

Phil Donnelly

Double Bass

Sam Kennedy

First Violin

A. Pagulatos

Second Violin

Stella Page

Viola

Wayne Urquhart

Cello

COMPOSITION & LYRICS

Cameron Palmer

Composer

Neil Waters

String Arranger

Justin Clarke Samuel

Justin Clarke Samuel

Songwriter

Kingslee James Daley

Kingslee James Daley

Songwriter

Ashley Nwachukwu

Ashley Nwachukwu

Songwriter

Kwadwo Amponsah

Kwadwo Amponsah

Songwriter

PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING

Swindle

Producer

Cameron Palmer

Recording Engineer

Patrick Phillips

Patrick Phillips

Recording Engineer

Josette Joseph

Recording Engineer

Liam Mclean

Mixing Engineer

Stuart Hawkes

Mastering Engineer

Lyrics

[Verse 1]

They say no man is an island

But I left island

Had to do my ting

If I sense any sign in ya eye that ya triflin'

It's bye, no fussin' or fightin'

Seen all they drops, the same already

Seen the bussdowns and chains already

Save ya drip, made it rain already

Pissed off cah my cup couldn't take more Henny

Let's discuss it

Wanna tell lies to the public

Cool, if you like it, I love it

But, true, I'm that guy in the function

Spit fire and leave shit alight like a bunsen burner

Manna grill beef, you don't want this burger

Money filthy, a disgusting earner

Word up

That's ya luck, it's gone further

Do a man like Klashnekoff

It's 'Murda'

[Verse 2]

Getting dough on the front end

Can't take man for a prick, no thorn

I don't need no horns, I blow my own trumpet

Thank road for the funding

Only bro knows how it's rolled into hundreds

Lizzy gone rogue, pink notes in abundance

Did all my bicep curls and my lunges

True say you ain't ya self when ya hungreh

[Verse 3]

Coldest

I don't how you ain't noticed

Without Ghetts there ain't no list

Your new shit's like my old shit

Your old shit was just so shit

Hold it

Who wants smoke? I'll roll it

Who wants rope? I'll hold it

Let's play hangman

How do I know you ain't got no heart?

X-ray and scan

Them man haven't been transparent

But I know the minerals they've got missing

Indirect often

Indirect, just bare subliminals they've got written

I don't wan' play fill in the blanks

I'd rather play fill up the bank

Easy think of a plan

Meet me, pick up a shank

BP, fill up the tank

[Verse 4]

I was in the cold, no comfort

Grade 8s in music

That's why I can blow my own trumpet

(What you got?) I got news for the public

(What else?) I got views for the pundits

I'm a sell out

I ain't got room for a hundred

I can only look down on people who gossip

I stay 22 rumours above them

Fuck them!

[Verse 5]

When the beat it just drops

And you screwing your face

And you're blowing your top

A shot no fighter can block

A weight nobody could spot

Beats, we are burning 'em

London to Birmingham

Course you'd have heard of 'em

Fellers are shellers

We're perming them, permanent

Jump on this plane, but just mind for the turbulence

Plane we observing on

So far above that it gets kinda burdensome

They are not ready for shells that we're serving 'em

Food for your thought, now come swallow a murdering

Gurgling on your own blood, and it's curdling

(Why?) Your stomach is weaker than Worzel is

My word on it, I'm earning it

The scriptures I speak, they're just learning it

Street shit

And deep shit

Like ancient Egypt and three clips

Like read this and take in your teachers

If he flips, then break face of eediats

He's quick to make pace 'cause he's sick

And these pricks, they gave chase, but he slips

Not a day in your life, I tell you these grips

Blud, they grip on the track better than V6

[Verse 6]

And when I've written a rap, I tell you these dicks

They couldn't buss if they gave 'em three chicks

A whole load of crumpet

No, bro, you don't blow ya trumpet

I roll over dunces

I throw loads of punches

Dickheads are lunches

[Verse 7]

Back back, gimme space, gimme, uh

Got God, got Jah with me, uh

Why the devil wan' war with me? Hmm

Why the devil wan' spar with me?

I been around, been around for a sec

I need TLC like Left Eye

When shit got peak, man left I

Now my heart turn black like Wes Snipes

Sniper

Watch a man shed skin like viper

Drop two-two bars when I like her

No coming back like Rikers

All that drip, but you're not impressive

Spark my thoughts, pen my lessons

Man can't talk to much about blessings

Them man there might think I'm flexing

Written by: Ashley Nwachukwu, Cameron Palmer, Justin Clarke Samuel, Kingslee James Daley, Kwadwo Amponsah, Neil Waters

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