It was a chilly night, 22nd of December.
This is one night every man shall remember,
3 n****s; Weed Master, Smoke a bud,
I’m a nuttah, decides to camp out in a dark forest.
In their pockets, each having an ounce of weed.
Strongly believe, this is blackman’s heaven.
Chilling by the camp fire, these “bad boys”
until Weedmaster heard a noise.

‘I taught I just hear sumtum’ *
‘It ain’t nothing, probably your brains buzzin’, too much weed,
ease off the sensi’ $
‘Naaaahhh man! It could be anyting’ *
but from the distance, a figurine ran up,
got them on their knees and told them all to ‘…shut up,
what you doing in these territories,
no man, has ever left to tell stories’ ++.

They couldn’t talk, shocked by electrocution,
weren’t moving, bodies felt paralytics.
Real hectic, spirits started appearing
disappearing, reappearing in split seconds.
I reckon, they’re souls of dead rappers.
This figurine, worker of the grim reaper.
A soul searcher; ready to hurt ya,
take away your lifeline,

Creates clones, turn your temple to stone.
Turf you our like bailiff to homes,
Temperature falls, vultures eat your body meat,
Word on the street, their death was just a mystery.
By dawn place crawling with Police,
FBI, trying to find the evidence,
The circumstance, motive for homicide,
it’s common sense, no man will ever find out why.

2003 C. Buffong Clarke / Playaz Cliq Recordings

Written by Madman the Greatest for Playaz Cliq Recordings.
Originally recorded with Mr FX

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