Lyrics Westside Gunn – Lord Of War (Intro)
Text:
Peace, peace, yo, it’s Westside Gunn, family (Uh-huh)
Feel good tonight, man, I’m here, man, I came a long way for this
Street Entertainment, man, F.N.I.C. (What up)
Black Royalty, man (What up), Death Valley, man
This that feel good, right here
Calico M one-ten, a hundred rounds in it
Rose gold jewels on, selling cracks every minute
Big niggas out screaming out, «Two for 15!»
Fish scales on the beam, better dope than Grand Street
Watch them niggas lean, got burned clean, bitch
For 32 on the scene, Machine out the Bim
Flavor moccasins on, 400 for the jeans
My man got shot next to me, heard that shit sting
Retaliate with the wings, Hawks and Desert Eags
Got Woolrich peacoats with pumps in the sleeves
Pull up in yellow Bimmers like we fuckin’ Latin Kings
Shootouts in Dewey Park, left the TEC by the swing
Pay fees and throw cocktails, heard your mom scream
Got goons by each door, you fuckers can’t leave
I let the gat sing, MAC ring, I’m doing my thing-thing
40 cal plus dope with no cut brought us more cream
Rock the Polo sweats, TEC staying up by the drawstring
Scuffed my Bathing Apes hopping over gates, nah mean?
Handling six-figure jig, Desert Eagle twins
The kid sprinting from a Mandela bid, vanilla Benz
Gucci lenses, Uzi vicious under Coogi trenches
Sick as Pyrex in kitchens, well-invested riches
Jewelry glisten, listen, product kicks delicious
Christian Diors, Colombian coke bitches
Cake clippers, air hole TECs with pin triggers
Fifteen a brick, AR-15’s to blow
I swear I seen him flip barefaced to lick shit, invincible
Rose gold down on my dick, you despicable
Fast life the way we choose to live
Gold fronts laced with the ruby bridge
High school I wore Iceberg laced with the Snoopy wig
Cops will chase us, razors with residue on it
We in the majors, tri-color Jacobs
Yo, I’m too laced, Versace got shot in his face
Wait, plate got shake on it, fiends got great on it
Raekwon-ers display warnings, shoot at the head honcho
Salvatore Ferragamo’s lucky if you make it ’til tomorrow
McLarens have ’em staring great
Your shit band was mere vanity appearance
You 12 to 8, I’m not sharing
Ain’t no money like money from heroin, nigga, nigga
It’s fucking Westside gat man (Uh-huh), F.N.I.C. (You already know)
Nah mean? We on some ’08 shit, man
Westside Gunn story, man
Nah mean? Guap or die, man, you already fuckin’ know, Black Royalty, nah mean?
S. Grill killing the fuckin’ tracks man, nah mean?
We fuckin’ ahead of our time B, nah mean?
Just, just fuckin’ listen man, let that shit ride for a second, man
