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Royal Fam f La the Darkman - Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai O.S.T.

на свой мобильный!
Отправь SMS с текстом 55788-117-11048 на номер 5537.

Предложение действительно для Российских операторов.

[Intro: Timbo King]
Y`all niggas shittin on my sidewalk
Curb ya dog
You could pay a penalty for that

[Timbo King]
Yo, sharp swords and rusty knives against dusty nines
You stink niggas with musky vibes
Battle cry, warrior stance, the black Pearl Harbor
Smell of revenge, worms in the air
Spit like grandpa from down South
Three-sixty roundhouse, I`m throwin planets and stars
All I need is two pieces of fish and five loaves of bread
Watch me feed five thousand, power the Hill
Out of the ville, zip code unlisted
Murder last night, the homocide, missed it
Blood For Blood, gang turf
The way of the samurai sword, we bang first
Each your food, test your flesh, lock doors
Top dogs with paws obey God`s laws
Claim your set, light reflects off water
My Fam outta state sellin quarters
Convicts with court orders
Shoot the gift out the barrel
Multiple gunshot wounds or poison arrows
Moon saw beats pharoah, bloody apparell
The streets look safe, but they narrow
Modern day Jes` James, rock trains, close range
Watches and chains, ear rings, everything
Corporate thugs move on business campaigns
Blaze, ignite the flame, I carry the torch
Walk through The Valley of Death and get scorched

[Chorus: Mighty Jarrett]
Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH!
Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH!
Two shot lick out, a man get shot
Straight from the cannon, ass wouldn`t know less
Just because of that, the whole block get hot
Police helicopter, a snipe `pon de roof top
Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH!
Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH!
Two minute later, Babylon catch spark
in the staircase with a rasclat glock
Never know, said them wouldn`t come round back
Know him look like, said him youths can`t talk
Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH!
Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH!

*police sirens*
*machine gun fire*

[La the Darkman]
Darkman, came do my thing, the Bee sting
Assassinate your whole team with the forty red beam
My sword gleam, sharpen my script as an arrow
Professional, La, my style, double barrell
I self-Lord, master, natural disaster
Holy slang to splash ya, dark force to thrash ya
Blind eyes, puligiments, got four wives
Inside my square, rappers get buried alive
We never even, put you in the dirt still breathin
Perfection, gold mic touch, dunn, I`m blessin
Flames lick the flesh, shot at some of the best
When delf play me at my rest, stab the kid in his chest
Now I got respect, runnin through boroughs, hoods and towns
Niggas pull they pants down when I show the four pound
Verbally fantastic, cock my rhyme, blast it
Trapa Ghandi, classic, gun talk, gymnastics
Rude boy, shoot, seek and destroy
My gold tech blast rappers from here to Quebec
Yo, La`s born, Brooklyn raised
You niggas get more than grazed when I blaze my guage
It`s not an arcade, dunn, my gun is real as AIDS
I`m Holyfield, rappers is Tyson these days
Darkman, Wu-Tang Clan, La the Darkman
Wu-Tang Clan, the Killah

Chorus

*police sirens*
*machine gun fire*

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