Lyrics Older Gods - Wu-Tang Clan

Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly
Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky
With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist
Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist
Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove
Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold
God, the old chain and ball technique, got these
Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats
18 Bronzeman Part II
We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle
Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo
I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood
Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good
Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece
"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece"
The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay
Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades
Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer
Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now

Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this
Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist
E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate
Pulling out old .38s to rob gates
Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up
Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time
Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage
And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage
Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out
Just came home, now they bunked out
Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out
That's my word, move it with the burner out
Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10
Most of my team, Five Percent
Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians
Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians

Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this
Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous
It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life
One time in the respectable mind

Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks
Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks
Witness forget his original statement
Even in protection programs there's no escapement
Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns
Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge
Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat
Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat
I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks
All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck
And as they nervously stare, I know they scared
They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square
Household name assassin, Killa Bee
Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy
Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend
Those that got styles, they got identical twins
Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky
Without skills, they master the art of mimicry
But I go line for line on the whole page
Your unspotted life on the mic is old age