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(feat. La the Darkman) |
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[Intro: Timbo King] |
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Y'all niggas shittin on my sidewalk |
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Curb ya dog |
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You could pay a penalty for that |
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[Timbo King] |
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Yo, sharp swords and rusty knives against dusty nines |
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You stink niggas with musky vibes |
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Battle cry, warrior stance, the black Pearl Harbor |
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Smell of revenge, worms in the air |
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Spit like grandpa from down South |
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Three-sixty roundhouse, I'm throwin planets and stars |
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All I need is two pieces of fish and five loaves of bread |
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Watch me feed five thousand, power the Hill |
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Out of the ville, zip code unlisted |
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Murder last night, the homocide, missed it |
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Blood For Blood, gang turf |
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The way of the samurai sword, we bang first |
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Each your food, test your flesh, lock doors |
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Top dogs with paws obey God's laws |
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Claim your set, light reflects off water |
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My Fam outta state sellin quarters |
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Convicts with court orders |
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Shoot the gift out the barrel |
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Multiple gunshot wounds or poison arrows |
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Moon saw beats pharoah, bloody apparell |
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The streets look safe, but they narrow |
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Modern day Jes' James, rock trains, close range |
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Watches and chains, ear rings, everything |
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Corporate thugs move on business campaigns |
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Blaze, ignite the flame, I carry the torch |
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Walk through The Valley of Death and get scorched |
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[Chorus: Mighty Jarrett] |
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Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! |
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Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! |
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Two shot lick out, a man get shot |
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Straight from the cannon, ass wouldn't know less |
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Just because of that, the whole block get hot |
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Police helicopter, a snipe 'pon de roof top |
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Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! |
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Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! |
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Two minute later, Babylon catch spark |
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In the staircase with a rasclat glock |
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Never know, said them wouldn't come round back |
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Know him look like, said him youths can't talk |
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Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! |
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Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! |
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[police sirens] |
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[machine gun fire] |
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[La the Darkman] |
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Darkman, came do my thing, the Bee sting |
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Assassinate your whole team with the forty red beam |
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My sword gleam, sharpen my script as an arrow |
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Professional, La, my style, double barrell |
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I self-Lord, master, natural disaster |
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Holy slang to splash ya, dark force to thrash ya |
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Blind eyes, puligiments, got four wives |
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Inside my square, rappers get buried alive |
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We never even, put you in the dirt still breathin |
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Perfection, gold mic touch, dunn, I'm blessin |
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Flames lick the flesh, shot at some of the best |
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When delf play me at my rest, stab the kid in his chest |
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Now I got respect, runnin through boroughs, hoods and towns |
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Niggas pull they pants down when I show the four pound |
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Verbally fantastic, cock my rhyme, blast it |
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Trapa Ghandi, classic, gun talk, gymnastics |
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Rude boy, shoot, seek and destroy |
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My gold tech blast rappers from here to Quebec |
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Yo, La's born, Brooklyn raised |
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You niggas get more than grazed when I blaze my guage |
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It's not an arcade, dunn, my gun is real as AIDS |
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I'm Holyfield, rappers is Tyson these days |
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Darkman, Wu-Tang Clan, La the Darkman |
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Wu-Tang Clan, the Killah |
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[Chorus] |
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[police sirens] |
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[machine gun fire] |
