Song parody of

Winter Warz

by Wu-Tang Clan

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  • English English (English)
  • French Français (French)
  • Spanish Español (Spanish)

Yes the shit is raw, coming at your door Start to scream out loud, Wu-Tang's back for more Yes the hour's four, I told you before Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war) This rhyme you digest through the RZA console Ask why I slam nine diagram pole Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback, Norte Dame Golden Arms is bronze, buddah palm hit Qu'ran It blows extreme, mean stream be the theme Supreme team, America's Cream Team, redeemed Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone Gun POW to the dome And split the bone, wig blown off the ledge By the alledged, full-fledged, sledge RZA edge One dose of my feroc(ious) handheld trigger cuts Acapella spitting shell paralyzed when you get touched And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical Cords, dope swords, five star general Raw be the quote rap style sore throat Through the fully operational, handheld tote mm-hmm Yes the shit is raw, coming at your door Start to scream out loud, Wu-Tang's back for more A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear So sit back and let the king explore Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this Side effects of, hot raps and hot tracks A duffle bag full of guns son, dipped in black My culture, glides and attacks just like a vulture Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster Yes the shit is raw, coming at your door Start to scream out loud, Wu-Tang's back for more Yes the hour's four, I told you before Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war) Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect That fills more body bags than apartments in projects And as far as the coroners know The autopsy show, it was a Shaolin blow Put on by my family brought to the academy Of the Wu and learned how to Fuck up yo' anatomy, steadily, calm and deadly Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit MC's submit to the will as I kill your Juvenile freestyle, civilize the men-tal Devils worship this like an icon Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python Yes the shit is raw, coming at your door Start to scream out loud, Wu-Tang's back for more Yes the hour's four, I told you before Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war) You heard other raps before but kept waiting For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong Extravangza, time sits still No propaganda, be wary of the skill As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum Dedicated to rap nigga beware of the fearsome Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat CD massacre, murder to cassette I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet One man ran, trying to get away from it Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream Discombumberate your technique and your scheme Four course applause, like a black dat to dat You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map Nowhere to go except next show bro Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O In battling, you don't want me to start tattling All up on the stage cause y'all snakes keep rattling Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich Every other day my whole dress code switch So just in case you want to clock me like Sherry All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill See my face on the twenty dollar bill Cash it in, and get ten dollars back The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve Put all the other LP's back on the shelf And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7 1-6-0-4-9-3-11 And you could get long dick Hip Hop affection I damage any MC who step in my direction I'm Staten Island's best son fuck what you heard Niggas still talking that shit is absurd My repertoire, is U.S.S.R P.L.O. style got thrown out the car And ran over, by the Method Man jeep Divine can't define my style is so deep Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind Cos you weak in the knees, like SWV Trying to get a title like Wu Killa Bee Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott Me and RZA Rob name printed in the tablet Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years Hibernate the sound, and now we out like bears In Born Power, born physically, power speaking The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching

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Winter Warz

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Winter Warz

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