Wu-Tang Clan

I despise your killing, and raping
You're... despicable
Are you, my judge?
It's just... you should be punished
I'm going to chop off your arm, so are you ready?
Verse One: U-God
Yo, yeah, yo, yo
Yo, yeah
Check these high hats sting things moving through the rubbish
Party robust, rec room style for you brothers
Time's ticking, eruptments conduct
Entering one funk before the drum dry up
Dial, style, jab vocab slow
Alphabet run, construction voice might blow
Tap dance swelling Hemingway novel model
For a breather, dirty reefer hide your bottle
Cut down, come with something that's round and profound
Blood brothers people of colors we get down
Watch this fly, force feed things being said
Nine Diagram acid black evil red left his
mic half a dangle, seriouser man
My mic clapper def wish, everlasting plan
heavenly God body, know me as the cleaner
Night champion, old villain style seem a
kiss of spider, to God saga why bother
Godfather talk drama, fly swatters
Number two, Chao San Poi
Verse Two: The Genius/GZA
This Wu shit be hard to kill and full blown
Rhymes filtered through the net before words hit the chrome
Pro tools editing tracks that's rough
Cause a jam without a live MC isn't enough
So we attack this, and grab all within reach
Throw a scrap back to niggaz - perfect your own speech
Shit is copper, it ain't worth the mic stands
used by backup singers in Atlantic City bands
Niggaz look on, and get hooked on this mic line
Real thin and shift through the pipeline
LP's delivered with style and potential
Niggaz flowin smoothly in a sequential
order, revealin hidden tape recorders
Stashed inside pockets of those who lack aura
Verse Three: Raekwon the Chef
Twist the DAC up, them niggaz with math is back up
Watch he act up, fifty-two block track we slap up
Playground maneuver, jet to Vancouver like this
Two Kahluas one chick she's German Luger
Get the shit on, light a fresh pack, bust it open
with the seal on Dunn, deal on this, with the real on
Next, Rocky, ring, call it to Decatur
Slang soufleer home decorater, player
Mic immigrants, nine of us formed resemblance
Somethin flashy, God dead-armed is nasty
Peep the ornaments enough to make Shorty-Wop stare at me yo
He killed the God might as well throw a chair at me
Verse Four: Prince Rakeem/RZA