[Intro: Sample from American Me]
[?]: You got a lot of heart, carnal. Maybe too much
Montoya Santana: Always gotta give it your best shot
[Interlude: Pumpkinhead]
Yeah. Brooklyn Ac’
[Verse 1: Pumpkinhead]
I roll with heartless men that make your heart stop and never start again
We’ll part your skin and make you bleed margarine—ain’t no argument
My weapons armament is targeting your cardigan
Blood stains remain on the carpet and a thousand soldiers marching in (What?)
Size order: Brooklyn Ac’, full metal jack
Make you pedal back on 24-level track, confidential raps
Make your mental crack like monkey brains. Rocking chunky chains
That swing back and forth like pendulums
Hypnotizing your cerebellum with my ice emblem
Sip the reddest rum. I’ll walk where brethren slumped. I’m one of Heaven’s sons
The angel of death with metal guns that weigh in at seven tons
Spit with eleven tongues until my head is numb
Pumpkinhead with death becomes Lincoln in a casket
Eyes open, fighting maggots, draped in black fabric
I’m gangster, sick in the head, illmatic
My brain is shattered, broken up into eighty fragments
[Verse 2: Mr. Metaphor]
I’ll open Pandora’s box and let the demons out
My children scream and shout, let me lead the route
I’m traveling back with a AK to free the south
Gagging the law with a bar of soap to clean they mouth
Nowadays, we staying weeded out
Puffing trees with the illest MCs, niggas you read about
You run up in your hideout when it’s night out
Turn your lights out, dig in your heart and take it right out
The fuck out. It’s my house—you under my roof
You in my world. I live there, the one your kids fear
Shed a tear, yeah, for the ones who ain’t here
We coming for your feet—beware, the people under the stairs
Out for the kill, out for the power to build
A thousand or more blasting off of Hamburger Hill
Close down the stock markets. Son, we scamming a mill
Snatch the inheritance out your grandmother’s will
Reach for the sky. You people must be eager to die
I found the fountain of youth and, son, I’m keeping it dry
Too many reasons I’m high, too many seasons gone by
I want my piece of the pie, to stop this leak in my eye
Going for broke. Son, we overthrowing the pope
Got politicians in the water, running, rowing a boat
To my New York, Brooklyn grimies who be blowing the smoke
Out on the street corner, blacked out, holding a toast
[Hook: Block McCloud]
All my peoples reaching for they guns (Crack that 40 open)
Someone twist that dutch and light it up (We gon’ get you open)
This one here goes out to all my thugs (On the run and holding)
This one’s for the streets, not for the clubs (In your system, stomping)
[Verse 3: I-See-On]
Yo, yo, I got big plans, Yakuza terrorists in Japan
Crossing my path’s like watching yourself sink in quicksand
Check out the live portrait my style offers from five Porsches
Money, power, respect. My life resembling a wild orchid
New York Post most wanted, mind torturer
Rhyme sorcerer, mini MAC live orchestra
Graze your head. Bullets is painting your flesh
A picture of me is like looking at a painting of death
Fucking with me’s like walking through a graveyard. Bullets’ll have you trembling
There’s no mega to my existence
We get a lot of props and my niggas’ll even body cops
We’ll leave you gasping, doing a backspin, swallow hollow tops
An act of vengeance. Through a mirror of fright, my life’s reflected
In my remembrance, they’ll bust guns with they arms trembling
My little son’s sons hear the audio when we bust guns
Make your ears bleed. My niggas fiend—they even fuck nuns
Let’s get it on. Brook-nam was swarmed by The Wrath of Khan
I’ll run a marathon through Babylon, rapidly clapping arms
Split the planet, swallow the globe, verbally spitting granite
Second to none, lust for the funds, letting the gas spit
Part the seas, violently stalked by the Mark of the Beast
I’m from the streets. We don’t speak—we just talk with our heat
[Verse 4: Block McCloud]
We stand out like scaffolding. You’ll be crackling, flickering
When we battling, bickering back and forth like haggling
Heads get chopped, are quickening. Burial plots is thickening
Snatching your Lincoln rims, slashing your Michelins in Michigan
Then we smashing your windows in. Stray bullets catching innocent witnesses
For standing near it. I’m back in your businesses
Smacking the fear of God in you, extorting and racketeering
Export what you snorting, sport cars with rack and pinion steering
Wheeling and dealing, we started out snatching earrings
Now the Ac’, we mass appealing—only the wack is catching feelings
Imagine dealing in millions, feeding your children’s children’s children
‘Til then, I’m building, leading a rebellion
Bullets fly like petals in the wind, melting your skin, entering abdomens
Before exiting, shattering your skeletons
Cracking your brittle limbs to bits ‘cause it’s the little things that count
Pistol-whip simpletons for bigger counts, then pull triggers and bounce
[Hook: Block McCloud]
All my peoples reaching for they guns (Crack that 40 open)
Someone twist that dutch and light it up (We gon’ get you open)
This one here goes out to all my thugs (On the run and holding)
This one’s for the streets, not for the clubs (In your system, stomping)
