Lyrics Cold War - Molemen, Vakill, E.C.Illa AKA Whitefolks

Cold War

Chicago… Chicago… Chicago…
Chi-town stand up
It’s the John Baptiste du Sable
Expired gentle places
High style environmental traits
Savagely scarring entire mental states
Some of the worlds tallest skyscrapers
And rehabbed abandoned buildings drug empires renovated
Spit it to higher innovate
My name’s symbolic where gang insignias is indigenous
And we die for 'em the way our forefathers envisioned us
Where middlemen get clapped up
'Cause two’s a crowd and three-way division sucks
Precision cut, and the world tax don’t help
'Cause we adapt the workers
Where 15-year-old foot soldiers clap to murk fiends
Callously squeezing
Empty the straps until the clips filing chapter 13
Stock up on long johns and bullet-proof appar-o-el
And double-barrel shells.
(Chicago… Chicago…)
Kinda frigid and the heat is hell’s parallel
As modern-day pharaohs dwell
As gang leaders control the streets from a narrow cell
Home of disparaging flows
To make you shit your good pair of Girbauds (you hear?)
We indecent propose
We don’t marriage propose
Examine the logic that contaminates projects
And turn men inanimate objects, homie
Home is where the heart is
Fuck around and make this chrome click
And expect a visit from 16 slugs that’s homesick
Gang dominance prerequisite
If you ain’t affiliated, expect visits
It’s the city with broad shoulders
Home of those GDs and BDs and Vice Lord soldiers
Whoever told y’all the cold war’s over
Tell 'em bring their ass to
Chicago… Chicago… Chicago…
It’s the backdrop to a 6 NBA title crown
Bragging rights we’re entitled now
Playgrounds where slain hoop idols found
The bridal gown Capone and the mafia married in
Where the patience for political figures is very thin
Colors is redundant
Banging is determined by cocked caps and hand signs
From Elgin to up in the Hundreds
Where GDs get love in abundance
And El Rukns and Vice Lords was once government funded
(Y'all don’t hear me)
A place where today you can win Lotto
And then tomorrow
Hammers’ll turn you to a milk carton print model
Cause that ferris wheel at Navy Pier
You think it’s gravy here
'Til the coroner’s picking slugs out your baby’s hair
11−9 Altgeld, lawless
The state weight
Perfected their hustle, gang’s flawless
To scrape plate
Only short commons
Warrants and court summons
And smoked-out baby’s moms you used to let snort something
N****s here don’t bitch up a truce
They’ll murk you
Then console your moms like Bishop in Juice
Where n****s like their pussy, pizza and their rims deep dish
And some of the sickest spitters plotting on some creep ish
The rap game’s sheepish
In the lost shepherd sense
So I spit it out with a mouth full of antiseptic rinse
Tryna change the scent of it
From pussy to peppermints
Y’all, bow down to the wrong city to rep against
It’s the city with broad shoulders
Home of those GDs and BDs and Vice Lord soldiers
Whoever told y’all the cold war’s over
Tell 'em bring their ass to
Chicago… Chicago… Chicago…