Apocalypse Now

Verse 1: Sick Jacken] Religion makes God the biggest reason for war Before money and the power Your hour of death was blessed a little more Rigor mortis, bullets come like a killer chorus Humming songs to the afterlife like psycho artists My mind roams where the street’s heart is I give my life to my people till I end up in a stone garden Or hanged before I take a king’s pardon If the grounds keep it street style Will bet my the crowd it’s started My sick squadron raised in Hell’s cauldron In the belly of the beast where we’re murdering a pig sergeant Blue soldiers walk in red paths with death masks We’ll see it all in ceremony, massacres with bloodbaths As long as apocalypse now, surreal battles in the end of time Done Francis Coppola style Ain’t no other way of stopping this trial The dark only with the lights till my last breath I’m wiping em out [Verse 2: Ill Bill] Stolen black American Express gone, drop bombs with it God did it, here to blow up your fucking cars with it Life’s cheap over here, I go to sleep no problem After revolvers blow out what’s in between your ears Scream to your ancestors, I pray to energy in the shape of an AK47 Blam faster than handcannons Damned families curse armies, kidnap generals Watch em drown in the concrete Grim reaper with the street sweeper when I creep up Around the bend, found ten million in a green truck The war chest, more death, more murder, more meth More money, more weapons, more gangs, more sex Morphine, methadone, heroin, and Viacom Anti-brainwash, I leave the ground poured with riot cops Notorious, scandalous, keep a banging bitch Ill Bill psycho-realm, Brooklyn to Los Angeles [Verse 3: Q-Unique] The ghetto bird flies over the depths of extremes in search of a fugitive Cornered ? burst into a shooting fit Q the urban guerilla trained in the ? projects Heaven’s terrorist, forever your God gets bomb threats The face of the trifle spic, the brain of a rifle click The rain and the lightning split on the frame of a sniper’s spit The camouflage blam from the hands of God withstanding y’all To be in branded in the sand by the vandal squad I’m a freedom fighter with a weakness for Brazilian waxed putas The back of the botanica (?) They got the block taped off with no ways to escape or break off In a chase with the state porks have walked into a face-off Their eyes wide, they might try it, cut the gun and get their sides fired And if they’re gonna run they’re only gonna die tired Q-Unique the evil Anakin eyes bloodshot red Face your demise on the other side of my gunshot dead > > Lyrics posted by heroin4yourears