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One neighbourhood’ll put their barrio on the wall and then, you know, we come in, write next to it or cross em out and they’ll cross us back out. And then it gets into um, you know, maybe a fist fight and then maybe guys will get knifed behind it and then shooting and then someone dies. And you know they might wanna get back at us and if they do get back at us we might go down and kill two of em. Then they’ll come back and maybe get one of us and we’ll go back and get two or three more. It just goes on and on. It don’t stop
Homie you can call me hot furnace
Ill Bill AKA Nocturnus
Walk up to you at point blank range and pop burners
Walk away like nothing happened
Walking while I’m clapping, laughing while I’m talking
Awesome with the Magnum, spasm with the four-fifth, caution with the asthma
The OG kush we smoke will send your lungs into a spasm
Live fast and we die young, a bunch of live guns
Get your mind flung through space and time
When we rhyme run for the hills Iron Maiden, die in pain
Have your entire society rioting
Flipping over cars violently then fiery
The double gun salute, a hundred guns asking, “Who the f**k is you?”
We the top tier, you could get your head popped here
Stop there, we could earth you and nobody would care and that’s deeper than an unborn
In the womb of a prawn at the bottom of the Indian Ocean in the calm
What’s the worst thing you can imagine? And don’t tell me “a shotgun suicide.” I’ll say, okay yeah shotgun suicide. A person hadn’t been found for six weeks. They lived in filth, they were a junkie, they had an animal that was eating them for six weeks. That animal died and then we get called
I’ll go anywhere I want, I don’t have clearance
Carnivore, don’t eat anything that don’t have parents
I’m jihadist, I go to war with God-fearers
Elohim, Rosicrucians, and cross-bearers
I don’t sign up for war, it’s no enlistment papers
My hands fast, they pyrotechnic initiators
I don’t have any close friends, just distant neighbours
Cause I don’t listen to Christians or crucifixion wavers
I don’t listen to anyone that ain’t been to war
I don’t listen to anyone if they ain’t been poor
I ain’t ever going back to where I been before
And I ain’t going f**king back to lose, win, or draw
Tell your whole f**king fam Vinnie P a problem
And my four-fifth sick, it got a sneezing problem
It’s the Heavy Metal Kings, you know that we a problem
And y’all ain’t saying shit, now y’all have a breathing problem, yeah
Certainly no one wants to be overly-dramatic about it or glorify it, but to be a gang member is to be a soldier in a guerrilla war. For those who fight it the war no less dangerous and bloody than World War 2 or Vietnam. There is no one enemy but several, and these enemies are not in some distant land or far-away stronghold. They’re across the street, down the road, up the hill, around the corner, all around. There are ? battles ? combat with large forces darkened schoolyards, parks. There’s night-time bushwhacking and ambushing. The enemy streaking by in cars guns blazing or taking care of ? from some secure vantage point or leaping from hiding places with knives, boards, or shanks
