Lyrics Born
Guns Blazing (Drums of Death Pt. 1)
Somewhere in space, this may all be happening right now

[Verse 1]
Styles like Al Pacino, Reno until the Borsalino
The mad Dino with the bambino, the Gambino
Bigger than Jim Colosimo
More reservoir dogs than Tarantino
Scales for Venezuela, brown as Nino
Making the block hotter than jalepenos
G. Luciano, be wetting {sh*t} like Pesci in Casino
Fifty dollar cigar seer, the Bosnia
The mafia, Don poet like Garcia
The Drug Czar and the baby paw beater
The M8 behind the bar freer
The Poconos, the Panama skier
Down with the Parmesan, ready to bomb like Vietnam with arms
‘Cause the hollow-points and phenomenon
The cheddar spreader, the killer with the gold Beretta
{N***a} deader, the sweater wetter with the hollow leader
Drama setter, the Paneretta getting redder
Kids and momma shredder, the infrared glow off the armor better
The Godfather, the problem solver
Coming through with the six-shell revolver, hot as lava
Gun skills that’s real and in the 'ville I be the barber
Gangster saga, the mother{f**kin'} face carver
[Verse 2]
Give you a dose of {sh*t} that’s dope as soda
The underworld family Cosa Nostra
Pearl handle inside the shoulder holster
G. Luciano with a clique but with nothing but {n***as}
And Chicanos, you get hit up like Castellano
Italiano like crime familia, {n***a,} don’t get familiar
Me and my goons might have to kill you
Up in New York, we play bloodsports at home court
And hold down forts, soon as you're caught
Get your dome torched, G Rap and DJ Shadow leave your bones squashed
Squeeze the chrome shot, take no shorts
We judge and jury in the home court
Leave you the blown corpse dead on the sidewalk
Surrounded by mad Peter Falks
Your whole frame laid in the white chalk
You got the smoking section
First-cla** tickets to resurrection
Forever destined to a place where {n***as} never restin'
Headed in Hell’s direction
Lost at the crossroads and intersection
Should've wore a vest for chest protection
Slugs fill you to the capacity, someone at the dance
Someone with the hand velocity of Butch Ca**idy
B*t*h n***a with the audacity to blaspheme me
Got yourself caught in a motherf**kin' tragedy
Drums of death

Sh*t is real up in this field, you should be packing steel
If you want to cross the Don, kiss the ring and kneel
If you want to bring the beef, you do whatever you feel
Get your whole family killed, b*t*h, you know how we deal