Winter Warz - Ghostface Killah, Cappadonna, U-God

It’s on

Where your sparkle at kid?

(RZArector)

Yes the shit is raw coming at your door

Start to scream out loud, «Wu-Tang's back for more»

Yes the hour’s four, I told you before

Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)

This rhyme you digest through the RZA console

Ask why I slam Nine Diagram pole

Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame

Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu’ran

It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team

America’s Cream Team, redeemed

Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone

Gun POW to the dome and split the bone

Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged

Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge

One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts

A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched

And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical

Cords, dope swords, five star general

Raw be the quote rap style sore throat

Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm

Yes the shit is raw coming at your door

Start to scream out loud, «Wu-Tang's back for more»

A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done

I hold a title, and here’s how my belt was won, check it

Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected

Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort

You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes

My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges

Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind

With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear

So sit back and let the king explore

Describe me, the kid’s nice and he holds swords

And his name, black attack’s the nerve like migraines

With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains

Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can’t destroy this

You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this

Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks

A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black

My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture

Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster

Yes the shit is raw coming at your door

Start to scream out loud, «Wu-Tang's back for more»

Yes the hour’s four, I told you before

Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)

Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect

That fills more body bags than apartments in projects

And as far as the coroners know

The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow

Put on by my family brought to the academy

Of the Wu and learnt how to

Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly

Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit

MCs submit to the will as I kill your

Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental

Devils worship this like an icon

Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python

Yes the shit is raw coming at your door

Start to scream out loud, «Wu-Tang's back for more»

You heard other raps before but kept waiting

For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong

Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong

Extravaganza, time sits still

No propaganda, be wary of the skill

As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum

Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome

Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat

CD massacre, murder to cassette

I blow the shop up, you ain’t seen nothing yet

One man ran, tryna get away from it

Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh

Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream

Discombumberate your technique and your scheme

Four course applause, like a black dat to dat

You’re stuck on stupid like I’m stuck on the map

Nowhere to go except next show bro

Entertaining motherfuckers can’t stop O

In battling, you don’t want me to start tattling

All up on the stage 'cause y’all snakes keep rattling

Bitch, you ain’t got nothing on the rich

Every other day my whole dress code switch

So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry

All y’all crab bitches ain’t got to worry

Can’t get a nigga like Don dime a dozen

Even if I’m smoked out I can’t be scoped out

I’m too ill, I represent Park Hill

See my face on the twenty dollar bill

Cash it in, and get ten dollars back

The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax

Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve

Put all the other LPs back on the shelf

And smoke a blunt and dial 9−1-7

And you could get long dick hip-hop affection

I damage any MC who step in my direction

I’m Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard

Niggas still talking that shit is absurd

My repertoire, is U.S.S.R

P.L.O.

style got thrown out the car

And ran over by the Method Man Jeep

Divine can’t define my style is so deep

Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy

Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine

Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design

I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind

'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV

Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee

Kid change your habit, you know I’m friends with the Abbott

Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet

Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years

Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears

In Born Power, born physically, power speaking

The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching