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It's on(Where your sparkle at kid) |
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Ryzarector |
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Yes, the shit is raw, comin' at your door |
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Start to scream out loud, |
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Wu-Tang's back for more |
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Yes, the hour's four, |
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I told you before |
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Prepare for mic fights(And plus the cold war) |
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This rhyme you digest through the |
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RZA console |
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Ask why I slam, non-diagram pole |
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Raekwon dropped the bomb, |
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Hunchback, |
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Norte Dame |
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Golden Arms is bronze, buddah palm hit |
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Qu'ranIt blows extreme, mean stream be the theme |
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Supreme team, |
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America's |
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CREAM team, redeemed |
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Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of |
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Al CaponeGun |
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POW to the dome |
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And split the bone, wig blown off the ledge |
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By the alledged, full-fledged, sledge |
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RZA edgeOne dose of my feroc hand held trigga cuts |
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Acapella spittin' shell paralyzed when you get touched |
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And critical, mic cords, hangin' like umbilical |
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Cords, dope swords, five star general |
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Raw be the quote rap style sore throat |
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Through the fully operational, hand held tote |
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Yes, the shit is raw, comin' at your door |
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You start to scream out loud, |
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Wu-Tang's back for more |
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More than thousand times one, snatch up, my styles get done |
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I hold a title, enhanced how my belt was won, check it |
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Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected |
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Germs start to spread through your crew, drew like an epic |
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You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes |
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My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges |
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Masked Avenger, |
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I appear to blow your ear like wind |
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With a freestyle, sharper than the |
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Indian spear |
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So sit back and let the king explore |
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Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords |
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And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines |
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With more games than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains |
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Poisonous |
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Rebel like |
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Deck, you can't destroy this |
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You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this |
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Side effects of, hot raps and hot tracks |
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A duffle bag full of guns son, dipped in black |
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My culture, slides and attacks like a vulture |
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Ghostface and |
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Madison Square is on your poster |
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Yes, the shit is raw, comin' at your door |
|
You start to scream out loud, |
|
Wu-Tang's back for more |
|
Yes, the hour's four, |
|
I told you before |
|
Prepare for mic fights(And plus the cold war) |
|
Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect |
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That throws more body bags than apartments in projects |
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And as far as the coroners know |
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The autopsy shows, it was a |
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Shaolin blow |
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Put on by my family brought to the academy |
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Of the Wu and learned how to |
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Fuck up your anatomy, steadily, calm and deadly |
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Spatter-head lyrics |
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I lick through your transmit |
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MC's submit to the will as |
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I kill your |
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Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mentail |
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Devils worship this like an icon |
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They're huggin mics with the grips of a python |
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Yes, the shit is raw, comin' at your door |
|
Start to scream out loud, |
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Wu-Tang's back for more |
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You heard of the rasp before but kept waiting |
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For the sun of song, |
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I keep dancehalls strong |
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Beats never worthy of my cause, |
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I prolong, extravaganza, time sits still |
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No propaganda, be wary of the skill |
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As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum |
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Dedicated to rap niggaz, beware of the fearsome |
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Lebanon Don, |
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Malcolm X beat threat |
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CD massacre, murder to casette |
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I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothin' yet |
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One man ran, tryin to get away from it |
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Put your bifocal on, watch me |
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I'm comin' |
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Into your chamber like |
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Freddy enter dreams |
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Discombumberate your technique and your scheme |
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Four course applause, like a black dat to dat |
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You're stuck on stupid like |
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I'm stuck on the map |
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Nowhere to go except next show bro |
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Entertainin' motherfuckers can't stop |
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OIn battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin' |
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All upon the stage because y'all snakes keep rattlin' |
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Bitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich |
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Every other day my whole dress code switch |
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So just in case you want to clock me like |
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SherryAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry |
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Can't get a nigga like |
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Don dime a dozen |
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Even if I'm smoked out |
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I can't be scoped out |
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I'm too ill, |
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I represent |
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Park HillSee my face on the twenty dollar bill |
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Cash it in, and get ten dollars back |
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The fat LP with |
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Cappachino on the wax |
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Pass it in your think, put valve up to twelve |
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Put all the other |
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LP's back on the shelf |
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And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-71-6-0-4-9-3-11 |
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And you can long dick hip-hop affection |
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I damage any |
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MC who step in my direction |
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I'm Staten |
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Island's best son fuck what you heard |
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Niggaz still talkin that shit is absurd |
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My repotoire is |
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U.S.S.R.P. |
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L.O. style got blown out the car |
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And ran over, by the |
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Method Man jeep |
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Divine can't define my style is so deeplike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy |
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Like a porcupine, |
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I part backs like a spine |
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Cut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design |
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I know you want to diss me, but |
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I can read your mind' |
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Cuz you weak in the knees like |
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SWVTryin' to get a title like |
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Wu Killa Bee |
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Kid change your habit, you know |
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I'm friends with the |
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AbbotMe and |
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RZA ridin name printed in the tablet |
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Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years |
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Hibernate the sound, and now we out like beers |
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And blunt power, born physically power speakin' |
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The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin' |
