Guns Blazing (Drums of Death Pt. 1)

Lyrics

0. Intro (Optional) [Instrumental] 1. Guns Blazing (Drums of Death Pt. 1) [Intro: 'Star Wars' 1977 Trailer sample] "Somewhere in space, this may all be happening right now" [Dialogue: Lyrics Born, Lateef The Truth Speaker] Offworld Technical Surveillance, this is U-N-K-L-E 77 I'm requesting permission to land, do you copy? Roger that You're cleared for landing Connect to clearance disc "five-seven-zero-niner" We're under attack! This is a class-A fire! I need immediate assistance! I need some assistance! Red alert! Red alert! We need to get them out of there! [Verse 1: Kool G Rap] Style like this Al Pacino, lean over to the bossalino The mad Dino with a Bambino, the Gambino Bigger than Jim Colosimo More Reservoir Dogs than Tarantino Scales for Venezuela, brown as Nino Making the block hotter than jalepenos G. Luciano, be wetting {shit} like Pesci in Casino Fifty dollar cigar seer, from Bosnia The mafia Don poet like Garcia Drug Czar and that baby paw beater The inmate-behind-the-bar freer The Poconos to Panama skier Don with the Parmesan, ready to bomb like Vietnam with arms Course for hallowed books, a phenomenon The cheddar-spreader, the killer with the gold Beretta {Nigga}-deader, the sweater-wetter with the hollow ledder Drama-setter, sip Amarett'a, getting redder Kids and moms shredder, infrared'll blow off an arm or better The Godfather, the problem solver Coming through with the six-shell revolver, hot as lava Gun skills that's real, and in the 'ville I be the barber Gangster saga, the mother{fuckin'} face-carver [Verse 2: Kool G Rap] Give you a dose of {shit} that's dope as soda The underworld family Cosa Nostra Pearl handle inside the shoulder holster G. Luciano with a clique but with nothing but {niggas} And Chicanos, you get hit up like Castellano Italiano like crime familia, {nigga,} don't get familiar Me and my goons might have to kill you Up in New York, we play bloodsports at home court And hold down forts, soon as you're caught Get your dome torched, G Rap and DJ Shadow leave your bones squashed Squeeze the chrome shot, take no shorts We judge and jury in the home court Leave you the blown corpse dead on the sidewalk Surrounded by mad Peter Falks Your whole frame laid in the white chalk You got the smoking section First-class tickets to resurrection Forever destined to a place where {niggas} never restin' Headed in Hell's direction Lost at the crossroads and intersection Should've wore a vest for chest protection Slugs fill you to the capacity, some wanted to dance Someone with the hand velocity of Butch Cassidy Bitch nigga with the audacity to blaspheme me Got yourself caught in a motherfuckin' tragedy [Interlude] Drums of death [Outro: Kool G Rap] Shit is real up in this field, you should be packing steel If you want to cross the Don, kiss the ring and kneel If you want to bring the beef, you do whatever you feel Get your whole family killed, bitch, you know how we deal This is Offworld Mission Control, notifing Central NCP We've lost contact with U-N-K-L-E 77 Repeat, we've lost 'em Does anybody out there copy? Offworld Mission Control, this is U-N-K-L-E 77, is anybody out there?