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(GZA) |
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I wiped the chrome off wit the dust cloth |
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'Fore I bust off |
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What's the cause, life loss, high price to pay |
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For a small reward, kill for that Bushwick and Horsely broad |
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I provided the jump cables, through to boost the mini-pack |
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Based on the drama unfolding in a track |
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I dont' hold back, I spare no one |
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Swords swing like shogun, now who want it? |
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You see the truth, then act upon it |
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Or feel the fire's fore view |
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Ain't a MC that I hit can pull through |
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That niggas are like kid, flashin plastic tools |
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Unaware of the most-year dynastic rule, what stupid! |
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(Masta Killa) |
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Without a doubt, it's in the heart where the best darts were written |
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Sittin at the window of the grand old earths |
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Youths thirst for knowledge, I teach but hold heat |
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'cause some savage niggas are lost beyond reach |
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Broken homes breed seeds of no guidance |
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Left to wonder the streets and experiment wit devilish men |
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Violent, felon offenders, supreme folders |
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One-twenty bomb holders let em off and explode |
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The battefield haunting the daunting |
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Wu-Tang dance deadly emits six pence |
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Spiral rifle, barrel pointed, elastic noose |
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Plastic head wrapped stifle, survival |
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Tribal, title secret rival |
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?Archual? subliminal message throwin |
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Bitch niggas holdin on labels |
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Mic cables, capable of slowin down jets on deck |
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F**kin you straight through continuously |
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Justice, wit more of the critical penital |
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Some long overdue, now served by the chiefs on cheat |
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Drummer bills is the street prophecies fulfilled |
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Better chill, currents to the invited |
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Bang for the 'phones, live niggas on they way home |
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Snatch poems from clones, we got it sewn |
