Billy Woods – Fanaticism lyrics

Cross my fingers for heaven and a burn a chalice with brethren
Three-six-five, twenty-four-seven, hold cigars like 7-11
Jars of that seven-four-seven, coming to America, Johnny Dangerous
Flex mic stainless to spit at close ranges
Who these strangers in the mirror? Objects may be nearer
Dead see life clearer, if drugs is terror, call me Paul Pot
Red rags and ? pens, spitting flem and bloody gems
Corner store hymns, Russian Roulette among friends
Forgotten Gods guard you now, Gunzu mile, don't fuck around
Piru's will pave the town, incoming, hit the ground
Have brown bag beer and a frown

I drank from Mommas tears, came up fighting my peers
Shots busted and no need to fear
The bullet that kills you is the one you ain't hear
Kalashnikovs and spear, four-hundred years
I been ready, pass the machete on some Mario Andrede
Gimme some gas, bags of diesel, powder to the people
Courtesy of pigeons waving Desert Eagles
Crumb snatching like "Sorry Miss Jackson, it's that real"
Speedy Claxton, run your pockets transaction
G.E.D. ?splitter? factions, bagging up fractions
Moving decimals, nine to five to square root
On the corner of duece hanging from my hypotenuse
Strange fruit, cigarettes and women prefer them loose
Semi automatic mathematics
Like how many Backwoods before you're hustling backwards
Word problems, essay questions
Standardized testin', sativa sessions
Seminars and lessons, a raw mic blessin'

If I should die before I wake- Nah
Rather stay up late blowing unk in the gate
Watch the day break, write til my hand ache
Rewind the tape, pen out on fate
True believers will detonate
Crying "God is great!", give me an L and V8
To see straight through that screw face
Partner, that thug shit don't hold no weight
When niggas run from the Jake
And shoot your grandmother
Speech impediment led to max stutter
Big bother smart than a motherfucker
Look I don't need the cream
Fuck swimming the mainstream, rather starve
Than sell my dreams or pedal my soul with the eye of a fiend
Billy still got the triple beam
And both thumbs green, nah mean?
Rod Strickland, I'll fuck up your team
Speaking shake, engraved Satan
Sounding rusty verses for your playpen
Fresh off the plantation to bear hug radio stations
Til something's breaking
Carpet bomb from a nigga pacing we not patient

Mulah Omar, ain't nobody seeing me Joe
Got spacious closets for my seeds to grow
Backwoodz in studio kicking in the do' fo'sho
Be that red-eye cat with the body bag flow

I know you're feeling me man!
Deep down in your soul!