Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Dogs Of War, artist - Ghostface Killah. Date of issue: 31.12.2005
Song language: English
Dogs Of War |
| Just keep away (just keep away |
| Go on, it’s not your fight!) |
| It’s not yours nigga, fall back |
| I’m about to blow something out here |
| Straight up, yeah, this is a family thing |
| We gon' handle our business and shit |
| These muthafuckas know not to come around here like that |
| This is real shit, real talk |
| Four different niggas, with four different aspects, nigga |
| This is family shit |
| Who the fuck said family ain’t family no more, nigga? |
| This is tight shit, tighter than white in ya wallet |
| Yo, I’m talking bags of heavy coke, bracelets on every men |
| Innocent dope pushers, over night king pins |
| Indeed, we smack niggas up for their cheese |
| Throw bleach in yo face, got beef, let it be chuck |
| The streets don’t know my peeps |
| Jumpin' out of UPS trucks, blowing niggas off they feet |
| With four-four gloves, rims spinning, tippin' on fo-fo's |
| My mouth be worth millions, something like Paul Wall’s |
| Ladies look out; |
| they ain’t thugs, they homo’s |
| The film look hyper, when I clap 'em in slo mo' |
| Ya’ll still paying the mob? |
| We whip niggas out like waffle batter |
| Theodore ancient with dart, flossin' them diamonds |
| Discussing our hits over a glass of scotch |
| Baywatch bitches that ski, take turns when they hand us the twat |
| Think not, we still run the trains, til the condom pop |
| On the low, we still fucking them cops |
| Pretty things from all precints, friday nights, we holding they Glocks |
| This is family, nigga, niggas can’t stand me |
| Next up, my little man, I hand you the jammy |
| You know the fam, what it is, it is what it is |
| S.I.N.Y., where the animals live |
| Ass bet, niggas run in yo cribs |
| I don’t care if you blast for the cash, then scramble yo wig |
| I’m like «Damn, what a wonderful kid» |
| I could do what I want, doing dirt, not serving a bid |
| You know a real fam handle they biz, everybody get searched |
| From the grandpops, down to the kids |
| And my time, I’m officially here, tell ya man |
| Go and start up ya car, start shifting the gears |
| Sun God got the pits for his ears, cuz niggas is scared |
| Hoping I don’t let it blow in they ribs |
| I said hot, niggas get robbed non stop |
| Once the gun cock, niggas strip down to they socks |
| And my fam at the tippity top, I won’t stop |
| Believe it or not, you and ya man is close targets |
| Juks everything, dice games, mini markets |
| Fam gon' spark it, I’mma take whatever’s in the pockets |
| Mostly the cash and the wallet, slide off the jewels |
| Cuz you shining, begets and the diamonds |
| Never deny niggas with iron… YO! |
| Aiyo, chillin' with the Ceasar crew |
| We can smoke, all in the halls |
| It’s how many niggas with guns, got 'em on |
| All tip top, cling to the fullest, mad bullets |
| This is a hobby, the lobby where they clap yo hoods |
| Get the paper, word to everything, we a acre up |
| Barbequin' like a mutt, we ain’t taking nothing |
| A high tech extremist, Gatorade, paid ya boy some money |
| To lay up on the low, swinging beamers |
| I need to be an actor, but instead, I’d rather be in Hempstead |
| All of my bread came from crack barbers and shoppers |
| So much beef in these whoppers |
| Guns that’ll knock out floors and hit choppers |
| What? |
| What? |
| The family remains, cuz it’s grain |
| It’s automatic, I live it and I claim it |
| It’s real, come around here, you bought here |
| Yo, lay that half tape, then you will get wrapped real quick |
| Aiyo, we hug the block on President’s Day |
| Slinging all year round, gettin' that money the American way |
| Might run up in yo wedding, grab the reverand and spray |
| And let the shots fall wherever they may |
| This is family, nigga, minus the mob ties |
| The resurrection of Toney Starks & Trife Dies', starring in Part 5 |
| Niggas’ll rather die when they’re pride’s in question |
| Try’nna play hero, getting stuck for they prized possessions |
| Look you staring in the eyes of oppression, that’s why I ride with protection |
| Extended clips, super sizing my weapons |
| Five eleven, keep the heat tucked |
| That’ll burn a hole thru ya stomach like acid reflux |
| Get buried in ya cheap tux' |
| We make it hard for you niggas to keep up |
| Been thru a hundred towns, and running, beating the streets up |
| Come up north in New York, down in Miami, pumping |
| At a table, breaking bread like a family |
| Florida, where we follow the code of the streets and |
| Breaking the beats and, we taking the eats |
| Never the least, we invading the streets |
| Shaking the beast, we familiar for life |
| We don’t run, we grab knives, my double edged spit life |
| My dogs is real tight, shooting the dice |
| Some of my fam might snatch ya ice |
| Got family that go to church, come back like you don’t work |
| Got family that’ll set you up, got family that chill, wanna spark the dutch |
| Wizard my fam, that stuck you up, I got fam that’ll fuck you up |
| Chop you up, put your body in the back of the truck |
| Osama Island, we been wilding, see the violence |
| We display talent, respect balance, nigga, Shaolin |