Cold War - Molemen, Vakill, E.C.Illa AKA Whitefolks

Chicago… Chicago… Chicago…

Chi-town stand up

It’s the John Baptiste du Sable

Expired gentle places

High style environmental traits

Savagely scarring entire mental states

Some of the worlds tallest skyscrapers

And rehabbed abandoned buildings drug empires renovated

Spit it to higher innovate

My name’s symbolic where gang insignias is indigenous

And we die for 'em the way our forefathers envisioned us

Where middlemen get clapped up

'Cause two’s a crowd and three-way division sucks

Precision cut, and the world tax don’t help

'Cause we adapt the workers

Where 15-year-old foot soldiers clap to murk fiends

Callously squeezing

Empty the straps until the clips filing chapter 13

Stock up on long johns and bullet-proof appar-o-el

And double-barrel shells.

(Chicago… Chicago…)

Kinda frigid and the heat is hell’s parallel

As modern-day pharaohs dwell

As gang leaders control the streets from a narrow cell

Home of disparaging flows

To make you shit your good pair of Girbauds (you hear?)

We indecent propose

We don’t marriage propose

Examine the logic that contaminates projects

And turn men inanimate objects, homie

Home is where the heart is

Fuck around and make this chrome click

And expect a visit from 16 slugs that’s homesick

Gang dominance prerequisite

If you ain’t affiliated, expect visits

It’s the city with broad shoulders

Home of those GDs and BDs and Vice Lord soldiers

Whoever told y’all the cold war’s over

Tell 'em bring their ass to

Chicago… Chicago… Chicago…

It’s the backdrop to a 6 NBA title crown

Bragging rights we’re entitled now

Playgrounds where slain hoop idols found

The bridal gown Capone and the mafia married in

Where the patience for political figures is very thin

Colors is redundant

Banging is determined by cocked caps and hand signs

From Elgin to up in the Hundreds

Where GDs get love in abundance

And El Rukns and Vice Lords was once government funded

(Y'all don’t hear me)

A place where today you can win Lotto

And then tomorrow

Hammers’ll turn you to a milk carton print model

Cause that ferris wheel at Navy Pier

You think it’s gravy here

'Til the coroner’s picking slugs out your baby’s hair

11−9 Altgeld, lawless

The state weight

Perfected their hustle, gang’s flawless

To scrape plate

Only short commons

Warrants and court summons

And smoked-out baby’s moms you used to let snort something

N****s here don’t bitch up a truce

They’ll murk you

Then console your moms like Bishop in Juice

Where n****s like their pussy, pizza and their rims deep dish

And some of the sickest spitters plotting on some creep ish

The rap game’s sheepish

In the lost shepherd sense

So I spit it out with a mouth full of antiseptic rinse

Tryna change the scent of it

From pussy to peppermints

Y’all, bow down to the wrong city to rep against

It’s the city with broad shoulders

Home of those GDs and BDs and Vice Lord soldiers

Whoever told y’all the cold war’s over

Tell 'em bring their ass to

Chicago… Chicago… Chicago…