Guns Blazing (Drums of Death, Pt. 1)

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Kool G Rap

Nathaniel Thomas Wilson (born July 20, 1968), better known by his stage names Kool G Rap (or simply G Rap, and originally Kool Genius of Rap) is an American rapper. He hails from the Corona neighborhood of Queens, New York City. He began his career in the mid-1980s as one half of the group Kool G Rap & DJ Polo and as a member of the Juice Crew. He is often cited as one of the most influential and skilled MCs of all time as he is a pioneer of mafioso rap/street/hardcore content and multisyllabic rhyming. On his album The Giancana Story, he stated that the "G" in his name stands for "Giancana" (after the mobster Sam Giancana), but on other occasions he's stated that it stands for "Genius". more »


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Styles like Al Pacino
Reno until the carcelino
The mad Dino with the Cambino, the Gambino
Digger than Jim Colisemo
More reservoir dogs than Tarantino
Scales for Venezuela, brown as Nino
Making the block hotter than jalapenos

G. Luciano
Be wettin' shit like piece in 'casino'
Fifty dollar cigar seer
The cosnia, the mafia
Don p. like Garcia
Drug czar and the baby-pah beater
The m-8 behind the bar-freer
The poughkenoughs, the panama skier
Down with the Parmesan
Ready to comb like Vietnam with arms
'cause the hollow-points and phenomenon

The cheddar-spreader
The killer with the gold carretta
The sweater-letter with the hollow letter
The patmeretta gettin' redder kids and mama

Infra-red clow off the armor better
The godfather, the problem solver
Coming through with the 6 shell revolver
Hot as lava

Guns skills that reel and in the 'ville I be the barber
Gangster saga, the motherf*ckin' face carver
Drums of death hold your breath
Give you a dose of shit that's dope as soda
The underworld family cosa-nostra
Pearl-handle inside the shoulder-holster
G. Luciano with a click but nothin' but n-s + chicanos

You get hit up like castrelano
Italiano like crime familia
N- don't get familiar
Me and my goons might have to kill you
Up in new york
We play bloodsports at home court
And hold down forts

Soon as ya caught, get your dome torched
G rap and dj shadow leave your bone squashed
Squeeze the chrome short, take no shorts
We judge and jury in the home court
Give you the clown corpse dead on the sidewalk

Surrounded by mad pedefors
Your whole frame laid in the white chalk
You got the smoking section
First-class tickets to resurrection
Forever destined to a place where n-s never rest in
Headed in hell's direction

Lost at the crossroads and intersection
Should've wore a vest for chest protection
Slug fill you to capacity, someone at the dance
Someone with the hand velocity of butch cassidy
Bitch n- with the audacity to blaspheme me
Got yourself caught in a motherf*ckin' tragedy
Drums of death

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