Текст песни Royal Fam f La the Darkman - Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai O.S.T.
Royal Fam f La the Darkman - Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai O.S.T. слова песни
[Intro: Timbo King]Y`all niggas shittin on my sidewalkCurb ya dogYou could pay a penalty for that[Timbo King]Yo, sharp swords and rusty knives against dusty ninesYou stink niggas with musky vibesBattle cry, warrior stance, the black Pearl HarborSmell of revenge, worms in the airSpit like grandpa from down SouthThree-sixty roundhouse, I`m throwin planets and starsAll I need is two pieces of fish and five loaves of breadWatch me feed five thousand, power the HillOut of the ville, zip code unlistedMurder last night, the homocide, missed itBlood For Blood, gang turfThe way of the samurai sword, we bang firstEach your food, test your flesh, lock doorsTop dogs with paws obey God`s lawsClaim your set, light reflects off waterMy Fam outta state sellin quartersConvicts with court ordersShoot the gift out the barrelMultiple gunshot wounds or poison arrowsMoon saw beats pharoah, bloody apparellThe streets look safe, but they narrowModern day Jes` James, rock trains, close rangeWatches and chains, ear rings, everythingCorporate thugs move on business campaignsBlaze, ignite the flame, I carry the torchWalk 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 shotStraight from the cannon, ass wouldn`t know lessJust because of that, the whole block get hotPolice helicopter, a snipe `pon de roof topWa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH!Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH!Two minute later, Babylon catch sparkin the staircase with a rasclat glockNever know, said them wouldn`t come round backKnow him look like, said him youths can`t talkWa 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 stingAssassinate your whole team with the forty red beamMy sword gleam, sharpen my script as an arrowProfessional, La, my style, double barrellI self-Lord, master, natural disasterHoly slang to splash ya, dark force to thrash yaBlind eyes, puligiments, got four wivesInside my square, rappers get buried aliveWe never even, put you in the dirt still breathinPerfection, gold mic touch, dunn, I`m blessinFlames lick the flesh, shot at some of the bestWhen delf play me at my rest, stab the kid in his chestNow I got respect, runnin through boroughs, hoods and townsNiggas pull they pants down when I show the four poundVerbally fantastic, cock my rhyme, blast itTrapa Ghandi, classic, gun talk, gymnasticsRude boy, shoot, seek and destroyMy gold tech blast rappers from here to QuebecYo, La`s born, Brooklyn raisedYou niggas get more than grazed when I blaze my guageIt`s not an arcade, dunn, my gun is real as AIDSI`m Holyfield, rappers is Tyson these daysDarkman, Wu-Tang Clan, La the DarkmanWu-Tang Clan, the KillahChorus*police sirens**machine gun fire*