Fresh from the Morgue - Bronze Nazareth, RZA

Yeah, nigga, I’m ill;

fresh from the morgue

The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor

Nigga, I’m ill;

fresh from the morgue

Yes, I’m gone;

trade my lawn for a shore

Nigga, I’m ill;

fresh from the morgue

The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor

Nigga, I’m ill;

fresh from the morgue

Yes, I’m gone;

trade my lawn for a shore

Nigga, I’m ill;

chain still the back of a gorilla

Records so sharp, DJ’s slash their finger

We chop trees;

never yellin' «timber»

Float off on leaves, cough and wheeze;

a Magellan drifter

Off the Richter;

scale triple-beam, coffin lifter

Subliminal seminal, often lifted

Incredibly criminal, how it goes off on the discus

Breakfast is my lunch;

the feds heard my song, now they wanna search my trunk

Told 'em got that white in the sheets of that numb

Photo-copied bright, I’m that sign in your palm

Turned 'em zombie-white like the sickest in the morn

Impregnate the song;

molotvs tossed, detonate engulf my blogs

I take what I want, you niggas still beggin'

And I don’t got no jewelry to flaunt, I bought a building

Sicilians and gold Brazilians over my lap like pavilions

If anyone dare touch 'em, they might as well commit 'em

Bobby Steel and Bronze Nazareth;

combination’s too hazardous

The infliction, the past descriptions, known by no-one adjectives

Beyond fabulous, with small stars and asterisks

While I descend from the most high, draped in star catalyst

Crumbled MC’s, keep a pocket full of crumbled cheese

Not a tuna fish, but I been in a can with bumble bees

Raw is ill;

sickness can’t be cured by small pills

Take large corporate checks, and cash 'em in small bills

Keep the gat in a shoulder strap;

quicker than a Kodak snap

Twist a nigga wig back, like a fuckin' soda cap

Nigga, ain’t supposed to rap;

I make movies

Them boys poke they chest out, like they fake boobies

Put some D’s on it, put some cheese on it

The blunt is split open, nigga, put some trees on it

But listen, this bishop-realistic-rap-mystic

Got more rhymes and beats, than I could ever solicit

So I give you a freebie

You better smile when you see me

Poppin' on your silver screen or upon your T. V

B-O-B-B-Y?

Because we like you

D-I-G-I-T-A-L;

still hard as hell and rock bells

Motherfucker flip the head, I take the tails

They must’ve missed it, son;

the Digit

They didn’t know we had jelly on the biscuit

So they foolish, why would this motherfucker risk it?

Just to become another police statistic

Bob is ill, ill, ill;

Bob is ill

Bronze is ill, ill, ill;

Bronze is ill

My insane cocaine cowboy

That mean I ride the beat like a white horse

Propane out-pour

I’m out for a bigger catch;

fishscale drought war

My drought raw like Russ Jones;

salute to the outlaw

I’ma sprout raw like a tumor and branch out

Devout fans bottleneck the venue;

I air it out

I’m the heir that y’all niggas don’t hear about

They scared to say my name five times in the mirror now

Everything clearer now;

I’m pro-active, \\cause I clear 'em out

Abort mission, tear 'em out the frame, you a old picture

You a field negro, you a old pitcher, on the grind, past your prime

I’m a spring chicken;

spring training on you lame victims

My blade drippin';

Mary Jane henchman;

higher plane intention

Human Can’t reach em;

I’m so ill, bring in the nurses to see him

My bitch purse is bulimic;

the reason: up my per diem

Seein' the beats leave, stiffen the fingers;

D’s on the victim

My ninja hit me with these vintage words of wisdom:

«You hang with four broke niggas;

be the fifth one»

Yeah;

fresh from the morgue

I’m so ill just came from the morgue and shit

Bob is ill, ill, ill;

Bob is ill

Bronze is ill, ill, ill;

Bronze is ill

Killa Hill

Bob is ill, ill, ill;

Bob is ill

Bronze is ill, ill, ill;

Bronze is ill

Bronze is ill, ill, ill;

Bronze is ill

Killa Hill

Yeah, nigga, I’m ill;

fresh from the morgue

The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor

Nigga, I’m ill;

fresh from the morgue

Yes, I’m gone;

trade my lawn for a shore

Nigga, I’m ill;

fresh from the morgue

The teflon lungs, put the dice to the floor

Nigga, I’m ill;

fresh from the morgue

Yes, I’m gone;

trade my lawn for a shore

Nigga, I’m ill

This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill

This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill

This is ill, ill, ill, son this is ill

Bob is ill, son;

boy, Bronze is ill.