We Supreme - KIllarmy, 9th Prince

You know the team, we bust them thangs

And when we come through wit them tanks, we blow off steam

The team supreme, we shine and gleam

So victorious and we always do our thing

Yo, back up on this bitch, like ain’t that a bitch

Look at B9 flossing like I struck it rich

And it’s no stopping me, how low can you skip?

This, CD power hour, and this our shit

And, even if you bought it, yo, we made the shit

We gonna blow like the grenade displayed on our shit

It’s, Killarm' for life, we just invading shit

So we proving that we nice, even though all six

Ain’t spit off clip, you will still get hit

By a six piece of head bar, followed by a kick

To your rib, dick, I be Kinetic, you heard it here first

Yo, on this record, I wreck shit

Bong, fuck a song is on some next shit

The reason why we took so long, we had to go perfect shit

Bong, now seek the exit, and even though you gone

We atleast get through a second, of the single flow

Aiyo, the Granddaddy Flow is still militant

Killarm' we killin' it, who wanna feel it?

I let the rhyme spit

Fresh out of jail, now I’m back in the mix

Niggas thought me and P.R. will never get back together

Now we back like furs and leathers

Fresh Guess watch, Gucci socks

Beyonce on my jock, rap flow clap niggas in Crimestock

He’s my brother-in-law, never disrespect, pa

Get your ass on the floor

Strip to ya Victoria Secret drawers

Yeah, so I can explore, militant galore

The type of shit that make bitches adore

Verbal assassin, lyrical dragon

I write wit passion, niggas stay flashing

Got to hit the check cashing, hit the clubs

Now I’m back on the map, I’m still macking

Back is the pistol popping, the knowledge dropping

Green like the camouflaging, the living large fam

Even though my nigga seen the slammer, we back

With some bad mama jammas, with the hammers

Is it the beats or percussion, the heat or discussion

The Germans or the Russians, the blacks or the Latins

My nigga’s back, you niggas know what’s happening

Is it the scripts or the tablets, the dicks or the maggots

The pigs or the rabbits, the bears in the forest

The lyrics or the chorus, I bum rush like Boris Zhukov

And wipe your blood on my new cloth

I’m at it, I leave you dead like flowers in the attic

I know I rhyme best with my crew, it’s a habit

Grab it, embrace it, and taste it like The Matrix

I know we hardcore, I was raised in the Army, and we never gon' fall