| Yo, it’s Nazareth, baby
|
| Yeah, you know what it is
|
| Now do it, nigga, get it
|
| Let’s smoke a heart… yeah. |
| yo.
|
| Smoking a bold bogey, hoping the rose hold me down
|
| So I can stroke a pound of gold ropes around my crown
|
| Boldy tote the only pound I ever held, my mic is like
|
| Whistling hollow tips from out of clips, that slip from solid grips
|
| Feathers on the down floats, street measures that surround folks
|
| Could drive an insane man, sane
|
| Like crashing planes in the buildings, I got explaining to do
|
| These crooks tricked the art and ran, like the stolen Van Gogh
|
| Holding the candle, to the best of them, street veteran vandal
|
| Settle and handle, season beef like electrical seats
|
| I’m a beast, nigga, I call your bluff, like «You next, nigga»
|
| You’d rather end a fight with me, with your index finger
|
| I’m complexed, nigga, driving whips back to the plantation
|
| You won’t understand of my lines, it takes much patience
|
| My words so real, you can watch what I’m saying
|
| My thoughts staying scary like you came in and caught God praying
|
| To who, in heaven’s elevator, I vocally murder you
|
| And past through like Ash Wednesday, unnoticed
|
| Blend in, like cameras unfocused
|
| The roaches scatter ashes, floaters
|
| Slow as falling daggers, make your blood shatter
|
| Multiple stab wound plaques, engineer trained from far over
|
| Half moon tracks, and that’s that |