Testo di 'Soldier's Stories' di La Coka Nostra

[Chorus: Everlast x 2] We all gonna die telling soldier's stories When I buck off the gun watch em all duck and run P.E. number one, my Desert Eagle weighs a ton [Verse 1: Ill Bill] I got fly bitches twice as hot as Ice La Fox That'll get you sliced and popped for that icy watch Y'all fucking idiots could learn a lot about business Y'all buying Benzes, I'm putting down payments on buildings The king of the kidnappings and big ransoms It's Ill Bill homie, I break atoms and spit anthems We Mansons, grab automatics and throw tantrums Show you how the fuck we pop off the banger He was an alchy with lots of coke A perfect stranger like Balki Bartokomous He saw the Glock, he froze, he fell to his knees, begged for his life Said he was holding another ten keys with his wife Told me her address, threw him in the trunk of the car Got ten more bricks plus twenty thousand dollars Robbed him of the bread, put the cocaine in the jar Shot him in the head, took the yeyo then I'm gone [Chorus x 2] [Verse 2: Sick Jacken] We place the O in the soldier, wear the mask for the psycho clique My name embedded in the game like a microchip You hear the name and you know that the mic get ripped Psychorealm, LCN, and we don't like your shit I keep my spit raw with street slang I script all unauthorized biographies of sick dawgs My block filled with the war stories So we document the crazy lifestyles of the scarred homies We psycho Mexicans, that's how we roll in cliques only And got an arsenal to go against your sick army The casualties of war from faculties that fall The folklore turns real in a street assault Soldiers dying in the killing fields This a rap song, that street gang banging shit is really real Don't get it confused, the city kills I burn nine milli drills the enemy of warfare's get it ill [Chorus x 2] [Verse 3: Slaine] I reach my speech bitterly through every bitter release Chasing demons out my mind to get rid of the beast Walk across roads of lost souls, considered deceased Then watch the puppet masters dangle strings litter the streets The young man pulls his jeans, crease fitted his piece By his belt buckle, grabbing his balls, gritting his teeth Violent and lone, waiting just to settle his beef His fate becomes a weight inside a heart so heavy with grief Inside a cemetery children of the 70's sleep Products of the 80's fight for Hell and Heaven each week Dormant dreams and the doorways to never be reached Now it's absolutely evident whenever we speak For me to pick up all the pieces sick assault from a sicker soul Watching girls sliding down a stripper pole sniffing blow The drug game's a sport, it's not pick up ball I got a five-year mando right next to my dick and balls [Chorus x 2]