Lyrics Fresh from the Morgue - Bronze Nazareth, RZA

Fresh from the Morgue

Yeah, nigga, I’m ill;
fresh from the morgue
The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor
Nigga, I’m ill;
fresh from the morgue
Yes, I’m gone;
trade my lawn for a shore
Nigga, I’m ill;
fresh from the morgue
The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor
Nigga, I’m ill;
fresh from the morgue
Yes, I’m gone;
trade my lawn for a shore
Nigga, I’m ill;
chain still the back of a gorilla
Records so sharp, DJ’s slash their finger
We chop trees;
never yellin' «timber»
Float off on leaves, cough and wheeze;
a Magellan drifter
Off the Richter;
scale triple-beam, coffin lifter
Subliminal seminal, often lifted
Incredibly criminal, how it goes off on the discus
Breakfast is my lunch;
the feds heard my song, now they wanna search my trunk
Told 'em got that white in the sheets of that numb
Photo-copied bright, I’m that sign in your palm
Turned 'em zombie-white like the sickest in the morn
Impregnate the song;
molotvs tossed, detonate engulf my blogs
I take what I want, you niggas still beggin'
And I don’t got no jewelry to flaunt, I bought a building
Sicilians and gold Brazilians over my lap like pavilions
If anyone dare touch 'em, they might as well commit 'em
Bobby Steel and Bronze Nazareth;
combination’s too hazardous
The infliction, the past descriptions, known by no-one adjectives
Beyond fabulous, with small stars and asterisks
While I descend from the most high, draped in star catalyst
Crumbled MC’s, keep a pocket full of crumbled cheese
Not a tuna fish, but I been in a can with bumble bees
Raw is ill;
sickness can’t be cured by small pills
Take large corporate checks, and cash 'em in small bills
Keep the gat in a shoulder strap;
quicker than a Kodak snap
Twist a nigga wig back, like a fuckin' soda cap
Nigga, ain’t supposed to rap;
I make movies
Them boys poke they chest out, like they fake boobies
Put some D’s on it, put some cheese on it
The blunt is split open, nigga, put some trees on it
But listen, this bishop-realistic-rap-mystic
Got more rhymes and beats, than I could ever solicit
So I give you a freebie
You better smile when you see me
Poppin' on your silver screen or upon your T. V
B-O-B-B-Y?
Because we like you
D-I-G-I-T-A-L;
still hard as hell and rock bells
Motherfucker flip the head, I take the tails
They must’ve missed it, son;
the Digit
They didn’t know we had jelly on the biscuit
So they foolish, why would this motherfucker risk it?
Just to become another police statistic
Bob is ill, ill, ill;
Bob is ill
Bronze is ill, ill, ill;
Bronze is ill
My insane cocaine cowboy
That mean I ride the beat like a white horse
Propane out-pour
I’m out for a bigger catch;
fishscale drought war
My drought raw like Russ Jones;
salute to the outlaw
I’ma sprout raw like a tumor and branch out
Devout fans bottleneck the venue;
I air it out
I’m the heir that y’all niggas don’t hear about
They scared to say my name five times in the mirror now
Everything clearer now;
I’m pro-active, \\cause I clear 'em out
Abort mission, tear 'em out the frame, you a old picture
You a field negro, you a old pitcher, on the grind, past your prime
I’m a spring chicken;
spring training on you lame victims
My blade drippin';
Mary Jane henchman;
higher plane intention
Human Can’t reach em;
I’m so ill, bring in the nurses to see him
My bitch purse is bulimic;
the reason: up my per diem
Seein' the beats leave, stiffen the fingers;
D’s on the victim
My ninja hit me with these vintage words of wisdom:
«You hang with four broke niggas;
be the fifth one»
Yeah;
fresh from the morgue
I’m so ill just came from the morgue and shit
Bob is ill, ill, ill;
Bob is ill
Bronze is ill, ill, ill;
Bronze is ill
Killa Hill
Bob is ill, ill, ill;
Bob is ill
Bronze is ill, ill, ill;
Bronze is ill
Bronze is ill, ill, ill;
Bronze is ill
Killa Hill
Yeah, nigga, I’m ill;
fresh from the morgue
The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor
Nigga, I’m ill;
fresh from the morgue
Yes, I’m gone;
trade my lawn for a shore
Nigga, I’m ill;
fresh from the morgue
The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor
Nigga, I’m ill;
fresh from the morgue
Yes, I’m gone;
trade my lawn for a shore
Nigga, I’m ill
This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill
This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill
This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill
Bob is ill, son;
boy, Bronze is ill.