R.A. The Rugged Man - Chains (instrumental) lyrics

(feat. k**ah Priest & Masta k**a) [Intro: k**ah Priest (Masta k**a)] 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 k**a] 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... p**y, 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 motherf**er, they hate my guts All I talk about is b**hes, 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 sh**, I'm co*ky with it It's hard for you to admit it, but I'm one of the best in it [Chorus] [k**ah 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 j**els, 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 sh**, that made me That music from the '80's, the child's of the '70's I live long til they bury me...