Chains (featuring Killah Priest Masta Killa) Lyrics

Chains (featuring Killah Priest Masta Killa) lyrics

[Intro: Killah Priest (Masta Killa)]



Let it flow, deh-deh-duh (yeah) it's on (beh-deh-deh-deh)



(Den-e-neh) on... (yo, aiyo)







[Chorus: reggae sample]



Keep on knowin' what you know



Keep on knowin' what you know



End up, up, up, in chains, chains, chains







[Masta Killa]



Back in '88, son was gettin' a little paper



Caught a few stings, rocked the phat rope cables



Pushed the white Mercury Sable, known for holdin' heat



Pharoah garmer marks on his feet, serpents whisper



You can smell the deceit, they greet me like peeps, to blend



And try to befriend, to get up, underneath the skin



My long wind'll blow ya head piece degrees



Murder One Team, Barcelini Noodle had lean



Microphone fiend, step into the rhythm



This is how I'm servin' them, no need for medic attention



I just murder them, murder them... pussy, I just murder them







[Chorus]







[R.A. the Rugged Man]



I'm a dip-dip diverse, socializer



I'm a hoof flat top rule, in eighty niner



They say Rugged, by now, you should of at least blown



It's funny, I'm mad famous for being unknown



I'm just a dirty motherfucker, they hate my guts



All I talk about is bitches, and bustin' nuts



Yeah, I got a foul mouth, yeah, I cuss too much



I'm just so Ricky Ricardo, ri-di-cu-lous



And I ain't got no fly whip, I still ride the bus



I got Mitch Blood Green on the scene with us



Hospitable, hitable, cooler, than Jacob who criminal



Miracle, lyrical, take every syllable literal



Little riddle, profitable, visible, iritibal



Little brittle, pitiful, for so through little, you tickle, you typical



Yeah, I talk shit, I'm cocky with it



It's hard for you to admit it, but I'm one of the best in it







[Chorus]







[Killah Priest]



My mind is haunted, filled with the extension of slaves that's torment



Slow down my steps, one foot from the grave to con it



Our young black males, they lick pon gate



Son of the morning, roasted souls, tell Minister "come pray"



It's gun trade inside of smokey apartments



Flow process, one nine, two tech, four revolvers



Coke overballing kettels, it's like we struck oil in the ghetto's



We supply it to addict's, the devil work



He practice, he's like a search backwards



Til they throw that dirt in our casket, and that's it



I live where the fiends are nothin', just a scene of the projects, similar
to



Osama's



An old man, at the top of the stairs, he just stare



Cuz his mind ain't there, victim of the war



Polar signs, the times is near



He drop the jewels, til you buy him a beer



He said he was a linebacker for the Bears



Said he did it all back, while he's dryin' his tear



Yeah, it's that real shit, that made me



That music from the '80's, the child's of the '70's



I live long til they bury me...