[Hook: Bronze Nazareth]
Bronzeman's ill, fresh from the morgue
Spit fentanyl pills 'til you hang from the cord
KXNG Crooked's ill, fresh from the morgue
West Side's best, put your bets on the floor
My bitch, she's ill, fresh from the morgue
Gold with that chest with a 224
Yeah, you fall asleep like you rest in the morgue
I'mma keep it raw, change my lawn to a shore, n***a

[Verse 1: Bronze Nazareth]
N***a, I'm ill, chains to the back of a gorilla
Records so sharp DJs scratch their finger
We chop trees, never yellin' "Timber"
Float off on leaves, cough and wheeze, a Magellan drifter
Off the Richter, scale triple-beam, coffin-lifter
Subliminal seminal, often lifted
Incredibly criminal, how it goes off on the discus
Breakfast is my lunch
The feds heard my song, now they wanna search my trunk
Told 'em, "Got that white in the sheets of that numb"
Photo-copied bright, I'm that sun in your palm
Turned 'em zombie-white like the sickness in the morn'
Impregnate the song
Molotov tossed, detonate, engulf my blogs
Take what I want, you n***as still beggin'
And I don't got no jewelry to flaunt, I bought a building
Sicilians and gold Brazilians over my lap like pavilions
If anyone dare touch 'em, they might as well commit 'em
That boy hit a citizen
Stretched out, will he live again?
[Verse 2: KXNG Crooked]
N***as askin' "Is we hard?"
That's the type of shit I disregard
Crooked got an automatic rifle longer than the wingspan of Yao Ming
That'll knock the Polo logo off your shirt from over fifty yards
If you ain't with the shits, then be quiet
Sensitive hair triggers will bless you soon as you sneeze by it
The arm's longest dull Sim or Street Fighter, my Eastsider (word)
You goin' out like a cheap lighter (word)
C-O-B is the religion, I ain't dealing with none of you spiritual tricks
Unless G-O-D is the magician
P-O-P, hold it down
You can say you wear a crown
But that's equivalent to thinkin' DLC is a physician, listen
Real kings do real things
For your bumbaclot cheddar, I toast you quicker than grilled cheese
My Smith's on me, that's my bit, call me
Like Little C's

[Verse 3: RZA]
Bobby Steel and Bronze Nazareth, combination's too hazardous
The afflictions, the past descriptions, known by no more adjectives
Beyond fabulous, gets more stars than asterisks
Well, I've been sent by the most high, quick the star catalyst
Crumbled MCs, keep a pocket full of crumbled cheese
Not a tuna fish, but I been in a can with bumblebees
Raw is ill, sickness can't be cured by small pills
Take large corporate checks, and cash 'em in small bills
Keep the gat in a shoulder strap, quicker than a Kodak snap
Twist a n***a wig back like a fuckin' soda cap
N***a, ain't supposed to rap, I make movies
Them boys poke they chest out, like they fake boobies
Put some D's on it, put some cheese on it
The blunt is split open, n***a, put some trees on it
But listen, this bishop-realistic-rap-mystic
Got more rhymes and beats than I could ever solicit
So I give you a freebie
You better smile when you see me
Poppin' on your silver screen or upon your T.V
B-O-B-B-Y? Because we like you
D-I-G-I-T-A-L, still hard as hell and rock bells
Motherfucker, flip the head, I take the tails
They must've missed it, son, the Digit
They didn't know we had jelly on the biscuit
So they foolish, why would this motherfucker risk it
Just to become another police statistic?
[Hook: Bronze Nazareth]
Bronzeman's ill, fresh from the morgue
Spit fentanyl pills 'til you hang from the cord
KXNG Crooked's ill, fresh from the morgue
West Side's best, put your bets on the floor
My bitch, she's ill, fresh from the morgue
Gold with that chest with a 224
Yeah, you fall asleep like you rest in the morgue
I'mma keep it raw, change my lawn to a shore

[Outro: RZA]
Bob is ill, ill, ill, Bob is ill
Bronze is ill, ill, ill, Bronze is ill
This is ill, ill, son, this is ill
Bob is ill, son, boy, Bronze is ill