Buddha Monk And Popa Wu - O.K. Corral lyrics

Five shots in the chamber (This is serious n***a, word up! Get your a** murdered) What? (It's boom!) No games, mission accomplished Yea, yea, yea, yea (Mindin all day, every day Yo, y'all n***as know what time it is) My jungle never sleeps, I'm one who never sleeps The tongue forever breathe fire, the gun forever speak f*ggots, sh** they forever leak The saga of the bloody sheik, sweet drips from my real peak I am widow son, Harim, my guns travel through twenty-three million miles Of dry land, disappear from the world, hide beneath the sands of Iran Thug pa**ion, slugs crashin through your triceps and biceps When I step, straight baller, got somethin for all y'all Mystic Don spits chrome, Daddy Rose be a warrior Stick y'all n***as up, while we on tour with ya Ding-ding, get in the ring n***a, sh** Daddy wanna brawl with ya Speak to the pain and all n***as, court took your four n***as Ghetto ballin and shot callers for them crossed, standin tall n***as Get stank, holdin bank with gangsta figures That I'm four shanks, low triggas rank To get digits, commited to gettin aquitted Streets sh**ted on, y'all b**hes kiss when I spit it on Sin in dreams, scheme on, rid the scenery, lean on Teams heat beams on your shirts, skirt, Phillipean chicks sh** that that's real, sh** I'm still with Peal 'em in silence, brief nudity, graphic violence, escape the silence Triumph, fly lumps, trumps bullet hit a wheel For this score, steel, into different flavor, for real, for real Fourth fist-kid, automatically bubba, banana clip Big bang theory, slug walk, half a shotty Infrared lead tongue, semi-auto flow Gag a pig, gamma ray day, still wars Hollow holiday, four-four jaws Four pound, child style, three-nine lines Tec graft, double-barrel vest threat Six-shooter, German Luger humour Black bop, gat box, AK grenade spray Mac pen, spit ten, Callico poem chrome Ya highness creep in silence, hustl with rap sh** Verbal crack, the stack, works with a marijuana habit Been on the strip so long, still don't have sh** Can I have this? Give a dude twenty-five of a buck And that's it, control blocks, hotties pumpin Little bro' like shorties in these lobbies thumpin We posted up ready to body somethin Off the roof, with look-outs, ghetto cook-outs Can't trust a soul, all the crooks out Plus the police, for dough release on their whole fleet Never throw heat, roll deep, the code of the streets At night, hoes creep in Ac's, sleep with a Mac Peeps in the back, comrades, approach beef with the gat As the world turns slowly, the dutchy burns slowly We're in front of The Tunnel schemin on some rollies Brownsville representative, Rose Family capo Prince of Rocko and Pica**o, impulse like locks blow We hold it down like Al Pacino and Billy Blanco Run up in your (?), put the Glock in your tonsils Bust you in your face, open up the safe Chico where them kilos? Run up in your spot, with the stalking cap while you choppin crack Runnin through the projects with the nine Ruger out Movin with the loot out, Brownsville shoot-out n***a just pop 'em back Chickens on the benches, snitches blowin the spot up The punk cop with two-shot, play dead and got up Popped up, bustin with the Glock up Tore the whole block up, one-eight-seven on an undercover Rockaway train station, gang affiliation, n***a What? Yo, '9-8, yea, yo... (Brook-lawn, ShaCronz) Tre' spits, n***a {Brown cavemen We heartless baby, in this rap sh**} Straight shots, Rose cats, all day, everyday {UK, n***a, call the manes, n***a} What the f*ck you doin baby? {Call the manes} We get the f*ck up {Call the manes} What? {Call the names}