| You got the capital g
|
| G to the a-m-c
|
| Givin a mad shout out to the ranch crew from the old school
|
| And we gonna take y’all back, knowhati’msayin?
|
| Lyrical sorcerors right here, the fathers, the cream of the crop son
|
| (yo check it)
|
| Well if you livin in the world today
|
| You be hearin the slang that the wu-tang say
|
| Niggaz that front we don’t handle em
|
| So we blast em, alright, well ok
|
| Well if you like the way it sound then clap man
|
| And if the women love it too well then raise your hands
|
| But only raise your hands if you’re sure
|
| (meth) punk niggaz shatter like a glass jaw, break it
|
| My rhyme gross weight vehicle combination
|
| Was too heavy for the chevy’s is chased out the station
|
| Double-edged was the guillotine that beheaded it
|
| Gassed up, fuckin with some regular unleaded shit
|
| Heads roll on hillsides behind ropes that
|
| Bind-in, x marks the spot on the scope
|
| Heavily armed military is necessary, it’s a gamble
|
| Mc’s bet they best at every
|
| Powerful parable ditties might harm
|
| If tampered with, set off and strike like pipe bombs
|
| Flashbacks to the duel of the iron mic
|
| Look out for these fatal flying spikes, of massive
|
| Sleep-holds, put strangle on commercial angle
|
| Microphone cords tangled from being star spangled
|
| Now who could ever say they heard of this?
|
| My motherfuckin style is mad murderous
|
| Well what you know about mcin?
|
| Yo, I know a lot
|
| Well can you demonstrate somethin nigga?
|
| Huh, I’d rather not
|
| I’m talkin bout stacks cousin
|
| Nigga that’s what I got
|
| Cash rules the world
|
| Well cash rules the spot
|
| My preliminary attack keep cemetaries packed
|
| Of niggaz who think it ain’t like that
|
| Mc’s are gunned down like being run down with mad trucks
|
| Them God struck, religious niggaz call it bad luck
|
| Rap celeb, you got caught up in the web
|
| Now bees are stingin, yo that niggaz em-singin
|
| I’m just swingin swords strictly based on keyboards
|
| Unbalanced like elephants and ants on see-saws
|
| I throw raps that attack like the japs on pearl harbor
|
| Mc’s be out like bank robbers
|
| Fleeing the scene, to be a sole survivor
|
| Dj the getaway driver
|
| Tried to dip but he dive I socialize on vocal vibes
|
| On tracks stabbed up with razor sharp knives
|
| Criminal subliminal minded rappers find it
|
| Hard to define it, when narrow is the gate
|
| For fat tapes and then played out and out of date
|
| Then I construct my thoughts on site to renovate
|
| And from that point, the God made a statement
|
| Draftin tracements, replacements in basements
|
| Materials in sheet-rock, to sound proof the beat box
|
| And microscopic optics received through the boxes
|
| Obnoxious topic, major labels, flavor tropical
|
| Punchlines, that’s unstoppable
|
| Ring like shots from glocks that attract cops
|
| Around the clubs and try to shut down the hip-hop
|
| But we only increase if everything is peace
|
| Father u c king the police |