The Whistle - RZA

Yo, I beat the case, now I face the acquittal

You nizzles try to belittle, but ya’ll lest in spittle

From a baby’s lip, the digi made me flip

Plus they paid me chips, just to spray the clip

And empty out on you, in sync like the SMPTE output on the MPC 2002

We be housin' crews, plus we housin' fools

In abandoned apartments with a thousand tools

Crazy shootin' dudes buck off the beat

Brainless boutless fools who be stuck off the leaf

Two guns in their hands yellin' «Fuck the police!»

On the weekend get drunk and they fuck with the niece

Of the precint chief, she got the tattoo

On her breast that’s shaped like The W

Go 'head snatch the guns, son, I’ll cover you

And if they get past me we got another two, yeah…

We smoke those blunts the size of bats

We got those gats as long as ax

We snatch that cheese right off the trap

We put those Beez all on your map

I shoot the fair one, I dare ya’ll run through New York City

Or any city or place, my face, royal taste, pace myself

Ace my health, great with wealth

Undetected like the wings of a Stealth, I move for self

Or any man, woman or child that I call fam

That’s the way I am, word to Glock, my sister Pam

Son, lived through the terror of the World Trade blues

Nine o’clock news, abused the mind of many fools

Braves and jewels, made my moves, paid my dues

From the School of Intelligence, I stayed benevolent

Most high, magnify, multiply, as I add to the Kings of Kings

We never die, built my name, sustained like blood

Flow through the veins divine sign

Dine with wine forever sunshine

We smoke…

From the Vil to Brazil, live on your C-SPAN radio band

Explicit, dice kiss it, pour a little liquor

Golden imported from Cuba, Miss Aruba

Sexy as Asia, met her up in Mecca

Getting up in Just Cipher, hit it on the first date

Plotted my escape, twelve hours shift at the gate

How can you beat a G a week in '88?

Trips to the Pocono Lodge, the fresh Izod

Mama shouldn’t work so hard to pay the landlord

A grand in your birthday card, times is hard

The gun hammer click, when the pigs blitz

We scramble like Vick, automatic six plus one to the head

Yo, the east so hot, it’s red, but that’s home

And my Glock still burn your skin to the bone

Sonny Corleone don’t discuss it on the phone