| Yeah yeah, hah
|
| It don’t stop
|
| Sid, Vince, Tyler
|
| Ta’He, Rubbabandz
|
| Killa Kane, Redman
|
| Let’s go to war, baby!
|
| I keep it real, y’all know the deal
|
| Every man for himself, similar to a battlefield
|
| Never wack, its a straight up fact
|
| Or dip down in black once you hear the clat-clat
|
| It’s be real, ain’t no time to cash no butterflies
|
| Pass the St. Ide’s, screwface is my disguise
|
| Don’t look me in my eyes that ain’t wise
|
| The first chump that jumps is the first chump that lies
|
| Raw, spell that backward that’s war
|
| Lay low scarecrow I’m knockin at your front door
|
| Pointin a pistol to your peekhole, sucker
|
| Warning: my trigga finga gets pushy
|
| Blaow, a single straight to the headpiece
|
| Decrease the peace and watch the drama increase
|
| See I’m ruthless, pistol whip a clown toothless
|
| Me gettin hit, ludicris
|
| I’m on my P’s and my Q’s
|
| Try to put your foot in my shoes kid
|
| You gotta pay the diggy-dues
|
| I ain’t the one to play Pammy
|
| I leave the head all red like that little orphan Annie
|
| I’m dressed in black like Streets of Harlem
|
| Pat punk’s pockets down with no problem
|
| And get away just like an Unsolved Mystery
|
| You don’t believe me G, check my pedigree
|
| And you can feel how I deal with the damn steel
|
| This ain’t no game, it’s real
|
| Now what? |
| Punk, run and get you guns
|
| And premeditate on murderin me, the Godfather’s Son
|
| And I’m from Shaolin, home of the Gotti’s
|
| ? |
| thugs catch the body’s, catch where I be
|
| In the heart of the projects doin foul things
|
| Livin like kings, known for pullin stings
|
| Grimy as ever, roll my mom’s when I’m broke
|
| Keep my? |
| up to par, never had a tec-tote
|
| My record label and the FCC don’t like what I’m sayin
|
| So on the radio, you might not hear this joint playin
|
| I got styles like a, prayin mantis
|
| Watch me do damage, pin that to the canvas
|
| My dirty broken language is a secret
|
| Shaolin swordstyle, and never do we teach it, so peep it
|
| Wu-Tang Killa Bee on the swarm
|
| Word bond, I wet your block up like a rain storm
|
| You think not, you see red dots on your forehead, you’re Elvis
|
| Messin with these kids from Shaolin, you’ll get dealt with
|
| Like Tip and Poetic, watch me set it with the quickness
|
| Shyheim the good Son comes soon on 12-inches
|
| The one man gang, never need an army
|
| Killuminati got me at my window with a shotti
|
| Like Malcolm, ready to touch anything that moves
|
| Everyday lifestyle be a hustle like Smoothe
|
| Brown Hornet, uh, Down Low Recka
|
| June Lova, Big L
|
| Gill-Gill, love you kid
|
| Tump, Big Un
|
| P’s, Big Grease
|
| Big Red, hold it down baby
|
| Uh, hah
|
| Big Bogey, represent baby
|
| Uh, Little Kane
|
| You my baby boy, represent kid |