[Helicopters. Gunfire.]
Tombstone:
High tech weapons everywhere. We
roll in the jungle. In the middle of the field, they tumble. Somebody gon'
crumble after the rumble.
Urban souljah.
Tombstone:
Head it off, confident jet plane,
low fuel, escort it to the runway, surely not gonna be a fun day. It's
a gun day, warrior skills apply. Rebels in field, fire in Hell and sky.
The deal: the fear of dyin' is real. Suck it up, never once to be revealed
again, mess around, discourage the whole barrack. I know somebody's deceivin'
me, but I'm fightin' to the end if I believe it, just somethin' about that
thriller-iller in a nigga, yo, I gotta retrive 'em, splittin' them natural-born,
we're raised to prey. We done brought the forty-five, forty-four carry,
(you withdraw the blame, listen, engagin') on front page, eclipse the world
courageous if they all end up with barren wages in cages.
Your left, your left, your left,
now, get on down . . .
Now, stop and meet your fate. Wasteland
gonna rock this place. Uh-huh, check it out, check it out. Uh-huh, check
it out, check it out.
Sin:
Engage into combat, Armageddon
is already takin' its place inside of my brain. Held down by chains, and
I can't escape my evil way. Everyday seems to get a little bit more strange
to the point where I cannot sleep. A good seed was sewn into full a grown
tree with fruit as leaves, only to be chopped and burned. I don't think
there'll ever be a remedy for my disease, as tears proceed bleed from eyes
of those who scream as they desperately search for peace. A life of misery,
all you've ever givin' me, I've tried to pray, but my faith won't let me
go no further. If I got to die for something, it'll be my freedom. This
ain't no physical war, it's all mental. Livin' in a final era of the very
last pages of the Holy Bible. It's almost time to go, as judgement day
awaits our mortal souls.
Sound off: one, two.
Sound off: three, four.
Tombstone:
This is world we live in, truly
devoted, frustrations gettin' out. This splurge of mental traffic can
drive you crazy. More than enough
problems we're facin'. That's why Stone keep his mind in a zone, huh. Real
with ourselves, we way off in the wasteland, nobody wanna die. No, nobody
really give a damn, strugglin's a mother. Gotta play it out, can't unroll
your cover, on the down low hustle, trustin' in God, lettin' Him provide,
we strivin' survivors. Ain't about what it was, what it is, the deal, real
gorillas in the midst.
Tombstone:
High tech weapons everywhere. We
roll in the jungle. In the middle of the field, they tumble. Somebody gon'
crumble after the rumble.
Urban souljah.