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letra de willie on glock (y2k mix) - don scavone

don scavone – “willie on glock (y2k mix)”
[emcee(s): don scavone]
[producer(s): dj sae one and mista sinista]
[scratches: mista sinista]
[sample (drums): the winstons – “amen, brother”]

[intro: don scavone]
son. dj sae one, etch a sketch, mista sinista. don scavone bringing it home. uh

[verse 1: don scavone]
f-ck-
sugar-ray-style, cash rule, ricochet style, off-the-
-train style, lick-a-brain style, finger-vein
style from the main isle. thorough borough cor-
-tex from the tec under the gore-tex for s-x
and more death than a vietnam vet’s flashbacks
past that. i got to motherf-cking have that
alleviate while my trey and cd bake, and the world
around me get their greedy face fed sucking on
lead—and it ain’t from paint chips. it come from
a six-shot spit off the hip of a k!ller gun
flip up the body count—no karate. don’t
count against the shottie. double r’s send you to your
mother’s god. count ‘em up. children of the corn born
to the war-torn in the eye of the storm
back to the essence. another death sentence
manifested, victim of the ultimate aggression

[hook: don scavone]
who that catching all the props on your block?
willie on glock, willie on glock, glock
and who gon’ end it if it just don’t stop?
willie on glock, willie on glock, glock
and who that sn-tched up all the props out your spot?
willie on glock, willie on glock, glock
willie on glock, willie on glock, willie on
willie on glock, willie on glock, willie

[verse 2: don scavone]
the hard
hand rips tightest in a world of arthritis
ready to blast off, click in the igniters
to ingest. f-ck a c-ssette. we’re talking hardware
for the new year brigadiers, cats who made
federal bail from their medical sales, and every
thug on the block want ‘em dead or in jail
but n-body dare to approach too close because
willie packs more toast than gods on the coast, so the
b-tter gets spread ‘til the gutters get red
and it ain’t gon’ stop until one of y’all is dead
inflexible until he shed his last prop
in his box, stop in the place where he gets shot
better not be in front of dun. shoot the one-
-on-one, son, you’re getting blown to kingdom come
and even if you won, what would you really gain
but a name and a laser sight targeting your brain?

[verse 3: don scavone]
it’s
the land of the jungle. there’s the violent and the humble
sound heard through the world like thunder when it rumble
constant struggle. blue bubble populous watching this
sinner’s sarcophagus in every metropolis
posthumous, heading toward apocalypse for pocket chips
clocking it, sitting back in my city, just
watching it, thoroughly immersed in the forty-first
burst from the beast with the heat on the street. rest in
peace, amadou, and the millions like you around
the world. every mother’s son, every girl
cut down by the death squads or sent to the maws
to rot in a spot where all you got is your god
and i swear to mine: by divine intervention, i’ma shine
through my rhymes, set a spotlight like cronkite
on the dead-of-night darkness perpetrated by the heartless
millions of marksmen keeping their arm sparking

[hook: don scavone] (x2)
who that catching all the props on your block?
willie on glock, willie on glock, glock
and who gon’ end it if it just don’t stop?
willie on glock, willie on glock, glock
and who that sn-tched up all the props out your spot?
willie on glock, willie on glock, glock
willie on glock, willie on glock, willie on
willie on glock, willie on glock, willie

[outro: scratches by mista sinista]

- don scavone

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