Lyrics Luxor Temple - Army of the Pharaohs, Vinnie Paz, Celph Titled

Luxor Temple

The league of extraordinary gentlemen indeed\nAnd proceed to take the underworld under siege\nThe most decorated, celebrated soldier on the scene\nThe most underrated, overhated nigga on my team\nBlack ops, black cops, falling on black tops\nAnd I pursue chasing suspects through back blocks\nA superhero shooting supernovas through my toaster\nFace on a poster, hiding out in Nova Scotia\nBreak a mic over my knee, like Canseco kid\nStill wanted on the run like I’m Pecos Bill\nSpit quicker than a six shooter off of the hip\nWith thicker chicks in Bermuda blowing coke off the dick\nLiving the life of a pharaoh, in this modern day Babel\nFuckin' too many bitches could leave a nigga sterile\nMy whole battalion, snatchin' olympic gold medallions\nLike old Italians, season they gravy with the scallions\nOfficial Pistol Gang click it and spark\nI swear y’all mother fuckers made bitchin' an art\nVampire y’all mother fuckers stick through the heart\nI don’t rap over beats Vinnie rip em apart\nI smell fear y’all was bitch from the start\nY’all are sweeter than a fructose kiss in the dark\nI was here first I’m an aboriginal’s thought\nI have poison on the pen like an indigenous dart\nMy name Boxcutter, I’m about to christen em, lord\nLike a jail dude ima stick a shiv in em, lord\nThrow a left hook then I take a piss on em, lord\nSalt pepper ketchup everything I get in the store\nThey say the Siciliano was wild nice\nI’m a keep em feeding every block like I’m fried rice\nStupid rapper you could get punched in the eye twice\nYou could never walk in my shoes or live my life\nThis is tricknology trick trickle triple six\nBlood droplets and optics I’m sick I’ll slit your wrists\nI’m wickeder than wicked witches or the wickedest men\nI scribble on period pads get a whiff of this pen\nI make pussies pop like ping pongs or slutty whores\nMuddy floors from the bodies I buried in bloody wars\nBlood in, blood out let em bleed out (repeat)\nRadar got em, I spotted em, shot at rocket at em\nCrushed em and forget em, in bottomless pits\nPlaces where the goblins exist we gotta get chips\nSo we plot to rob all the rich I’m rotten, you bitch\nHow you think I’m rocking these kicks\nI’m kickin it with Amon-Ra inside a rocketing ship\nThis the power of ether, I’m like a towering creature\nWho figured out how to defeat ya, by devouring speakers\nI’m the pope of the pompous\nSmoking dope with the Pontiff\nSelling coke to Pocahontas\nI poked in the Oval Office\nI’m a dragon, exhaling the flames\nKilling, impaling the lames\nDemons are still in my brain\nThe evilest militant gang\nPharaoh clique, Talented, notorious\nI’ll bust your motherfuckin' shit\nSlap boxing with oven mitts, I’m rugged with… words\nCops they don’t want me murdering the locals but they (but what?)\nLet me do it like Motorhead vocals, listen\nRight brain, left handed, I’m a perfect mess\nMic’s flames, don’t touch it, it could burn your flesh\nI’d rather steer my Wagoneer past the pier\nTo a certain death than have to hear about your rap career\nGot it?\nEverything I spit’s got a golden seal\nAuthentic furniture flow, yeah I’m sofa real\nYour day job is the only time you load the steel\nGeneral Zod motherfucker, make opponents kneel\nI try to kill em off and make sure that they die\nBut they keep coming back and I (Don't know why!)\nFlash the hammer at you in front of the nail shop (Is he crazy?)\nI want you dead so bad I’ll sleep on them jail cots (I'll do it.)\nYou in the hospital bed, I ain’t satisfied\nI need you on the coroner table, ribs open wide\nDie for my respect til I’m laying on the pavement\nKnowing I got a job in Hell narrating for Satan\nThey say I’m already that, nightmares, where Freddy at?\nCutting fingers off until you tell me where the 'fetti at (Where's it at?)\nWhat good is alarm systems and guns\nIf I blow up your house, like a petroleum spout\nLock the coordinates in, fucker what I gotta aim it for?\nBitch ass rapper I was the first to pop your training bra (Fagget)\nStay away from my dough, it ain’t gluten-free\nMy label got college interns that’ll shoot for me\nBitch, boy you just a toy to me\nStrangle you with an extension wire and handle a bitch boy accordingly\nWhen I spit a little\nLet me excuse myself before the Crown Royal dribble\nAnd Crypt drive me to the hospital\nRitalin couldn’t calm me, we toastin' to the Army\nCapitol Hill, trill, man I’m shooting at your car keys\nCouldn’t see the car seat, we had to pull the babies out, bomb\nTook the lady out, this what being zany bout\nM-80 shady out, shady like Em with the crazy mouth\nFuck you, pay me this a paper route\nOuterspace caking out, out front of Outback Steakhouse\nWaiting for haters to pull them plates out\nEverything you got… mine\nEverybody hot… I’m\nReady to machete them, cause petty niggas drop dimes\nScoop enough coins though, rock this funky joint flow\nWise and intelligent enough to let the horns blow\nBack like a cornrow, with pourin' liquor, so I\nIn Death Reborn alive and I (Don't know why!)