B-OND - Fanatacism lyrics

Cross my fingers for heaven and a burn a chalice with brethren Three-six-five, twenty-four-seven, hold cigars like 7-11 Jars of that seven-four-seven, coming to America, Johnny Dangerous Flex mic stainless to spit at close ranges Who these strangers in the mirror? Objects may be nearer Dead see life clearer, if d** is terror, call me Paul Pot Red rags and ? pens, spitting flem and bloody gems Corner store hymns, Russian Roulette among friends Forgotten Gods guard you now, Gunzu mile, don't f** around Piru's will pave the town, incoming, hit the ground Have brown bag beer and a frown I drank from Mommas tears, came up fighting my peers Shots busted and no need to fear The bullet that k**s you is the one you ain't hear Kalashnikovs and spear, four-hundred years I been ready, pa** the machete on some Mario Andrede Gimme some gas, bags of diesel, powder to the people Courtesy of pigeons waving Desert Eagles Crumb snatching like "Sorry Miss Jackson, it's that real" Speedy Claxton, run your pockets transaction G.E.D. ?splitter? factions, bagging up fractions Moving decimals, nine to five to square root On the corner of duece hanging from my hypotenuse Strange fruit, cigarettes and women prefer them loose Semi automatic mathematics Like how many Backwoods before you're hustling backwards Word problems, essay questions Standardized testin', sativa sessions Seminars and lessons, a raw mic blessin' If I should die before I wake- Nah Rather stay up late blowing unk in the gate Watch the day break, write til my hand ache Rewind the tape, pen out on fate True believers will detonate Crying "God is great!", give me an L and V8 To see straight through that screw face Partner, that thug sh** don't hold no weight When n***as run from the Jake And shoot your grandmother Speech impediment led to max stutter Big bother smart than a motherf**er Look I don't need the cream f** swimming the mainstream, rather starve Than sell my dreams or pedal my soul with the eye of a fiend Billy still got the triple beam And both thumbs green, nah mean? Rod Strickland, I'll f** up your team Speaking shake, engraved Satan Sounding rusty verses for your playpen Fresh off the plantation to bear hug radio stations Til something's breaking Carpet bomb from a n***a pacing we not patient Mulah Omar, ain't nobody seeing me Joe Got spacious closets for my seeds to grow Backwoodz in studio kicking in the do' fo'sho Be that red-eye cat with the body bag flow I know you're feeling me man! Deep down in your soul!