[{"id":36367946,"name":"Black Market","trackName":"Black Market","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":292.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Killah Priest)\nYeah, knawhatimean, Killah Priest\nI changed my name, man, it's Leo Angel now\nKnawhatimean? Yo, this is Black Market\nKnawhatimean? Trag', Will Cooper, yankee, knowhatimean, uh\n\n(Killah Priest)\nFirst and foremost, we let our jobs toast, and sing bravo\nDrink the red wine, the sands of time, stampeded by a million broncos\nThrough the congo, beneath the cosmos, Priest the 5th apostle\nI'm like Picasso, I paint a hot flow, the canvas is your mind\nWhen you visualize, you can see it like an art show\nIt's warm like a bullet goin' through the Pope shirt\nSinkin' in the lungs of the quiet Cardinal\nI'm like Leonardo Da Vinci, my pen squeeze out sculptures\nHigh, like a ski Alpen, grease with my feet stretched out\nOn a sheik sofa, turn that beat loud, I'm bout to freestyle, soldiers\nMy rhyme show the depths, like a rich photographer in Yugoslavia\nTo Romania, fills whole stadiums, to them Hungarians, that's done carryin'\nTo Bogaria, to the Bocan peninsula, the flow turn vocals into pictures\nThe beauty is like the snow fallin' in the winter\nRhymes, are like icons of heroin adicts\nWith fiends, with their bare arms, scratchin'\nThey palms practice, the plan that the white, can't craft to\nTurn our people backwards, in black hoods to Spanish Harlem\nThe plan is Gotham, and I'm Batman, amongst these crack lands\nI hold revolvers, listen to the soul of Marvin\nTo bring back the promise, it's Black Market\n\n(Interlude: William Cooper)\nChill, Priest, yo chill\nCuz you got William Cooper in here\nYou know this Black Market, you got Tragedy Khadafi\nYou got Razah the Renaissance --\n\n(William Cooper)\nStroll through the tunnels of death, fighting the devil\nEvery night go to battle, squeeze that nine milli' metal\nUntil that beat settles, plus randomly complete me\nCuz they all beneath me, when night falls, we speak in tepee's\nMy peace pipes are Philly, demons grill me\nIt takes a proverb and a chronic herb to thrill me\nI keep pennin' for a moment, second amendment, I own it\nJust give me a minute, I'm zonin', like Pagan prisons, I'm thronin'\nSay my name, vision a Roman, the Trojan spittin' on omens\nWhy shogun never have a slow gun, trust no one\nBut Market fam, you know it's on, when the flag market's land\nStick it in the soil, we only toast with the loyal\n\n(Interlude: Hell Razah)\nDrink up, breadren, get off the grounds, break bread\nUh-huh, yeah, take this jewel\n\n(Hell Razah)\nIn the hood, guns go off, advise you, to don't show off\nYou can die in the streets, or the seat of your Porsche\nI seen drama back off, when you handle the boss\nBurn a cross on the White House porch, with no remorse\nFour horses of apocalypse, hidin' politics\nCommon sense, where the poor's oppress, a prophet is\nHe maybe live in a project crib, the more hard livin' it is\nMothers be abortionin' kids, birth control\nThe few will make it, most of them fold\nI'mma break it when it's cold, or a tissue to a runny nose\nAnd when we die, is the answer that God knows\nTil then, tell the angel of death, he's no threat\nJesus wept, when Lazarus left, he got vexed\nHe symbolic to that parable, follow the footsteps\nAin't no tellin' what felon could die in the hood next\n\n(Interlude: Killah Priest)\nYeah baby, Black Market, lift ya glass\n\n(Tragedy Khadafi)\nYeah, why some sinners got the hood wroten\nI'm outspoken, the general's spittin' minerals\nAt criminals lotust, allow me to catch your attention\nFocus on the next dosage, smokers and dopers\nIn the hood where it's hopeless, thus he has arrived\nThe black prince, now, will he survive, yeah, son\nI don't know cuz I'm bent, it said his mom was a virgin\nAnd his pops was a carpenter, good with his hands\nAnd nice with the revolvers, and a brown skinned complexion\nWooly hair, man with twelve killers, live niggaz\nThey met up in Times Square, true story, how you know God?\nCuz I was right there, we broke bread\nBliss me three times, I held my head, said my disciples\nWill soon have me dead, that's when the D's rushed through\nYo, pardon you, reached under my cougi robe, and grabbed my God-U\nThey was comin' through like Nazareth Jews, yo, I was through\n\n(Interlude: Killah Priest)\nHere's a toast to Black Market, ya'll\n\n(Killah Priest)\nTime to time, things change, but the realer alway remain\nThe hood, the life, Black Market, we the voice of the people\nLive it out, whether right or illegal, feel me?","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Black Market\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 292000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Killah Priest)\n  Yeah, knawhatimean, Killah Priest\n  I changed my name, man, it's Leo Angel now\n  Knawhatimean? Yo, this is Black Market\n  Knawhatimean? Trag', Will Cooper, yankee, knowhatimean, uh\n\n  (Killah Priest)\n  First and foremost, we let our jobs toast, and sing bravo\n  Drink the red wine, the sands of time, stampeded by a million broncos\n  Through the congo, beneath the cosmos, Priest the 5th apostle\n  I'm like Picasso, I paint a hot flow, the canvas is your mind\n  When you visualize, you can see it like an art show\n  It's warm like a bullet goin' through the Pope shirt\n  Sinkin' in the lungs of the quiet Cardinal\n  I'm like Leonardo Da Vinci, my pen squeeze out sculptures\n  High, like a ski Alpen, grease with my feet stretched out\n  On a sheik sofa, turn that beat loud, I'm bout to freestyle, soldiers\n  My rhyme show the depths, like a rich photographer in Yugoslavia\n  To Romania, fills whole stadiums, to them Hungarians, that's done carryin'\n  To Bogaria, to the Bocan peninsula, the flow turn vocals into pictures\n  The beauty is like the snow fallin' in the winter\n  Rhymes, are like icons of heroin adicts\n  With fiends, with their bare arms, scratchin'\n  They palms practice, the plan that the white, can't craft to\n  Turn our people backwards, in black hoods to Spanish Harlem\n  The plan is Gotham, and I'm Batman, amongst these crack lands\n  I hold revolvers, listen to the soul of Marvin\n  To bring back the promise, it's Black Market\n\n  (Interlude: William Cooper)\n  Chill, Priest, yo chill\n  Cuz you got William Cooper in here\n  You know this Black Market, you got Tragedy Khadafi\n  You got Razah the Renaissance --\n\n  (William Cooper)\n  Stroll through the tunnels of death, fighting the devil\n  Every night go to battle, squeeze that nine milli' metal\n  Until that beat settles, plus randomly complete me\n  Cuz they all beneath me, when night falls, we speak in tepee's\n  My peace pipes are Philly, demons grill me\n  It takes a proverb and a chronic herb to thrill me\n  I keep pennin' for a moment, second amendment, I own it\n  Just give me a minute, I'm zonin', like Pagan prisons, I'm thronin'\n  Say my name, vision a Roman, the Trojan spittin' on omens\n  Why shogun never have a slow gun, trust no one\n  But Market fam, you know it's on, when the flag market's land\n  Stick it in the soil, we only toast with the loyal\n\n  (Interlude: Hell Razah)\n  Drink up, breadren, get off the grounds, break bread\n  Uh-huh, yeah, take this jewel\n\n  (Hell Razah)\n  In the hood, guns go off, advise you, to don't show off\n  You can die in the streets, or the seat of your Porsche\n  I seen drama back off, when you handle the boss\n  Burn a cross on the White House porch, with no remorse\n  Four horses of apocalypse, hidin' politics\n  Common sense, where the poor's oppress, a prophet is\n  He maybe live in a project crib, the more hard livin' it is\n  Mothers be abortionin' kids, birth control\n  The few will make it, most of them fold\n  I'mma break it when it's cold, or a tissue to a runny nose\n  And when we die, is the answer that God knows\n  Til then, tell the angel of death, he's no threat\n  Jesus wept, when Lazarus left, he got vexed\n  He symbolic to that parable, follow the footsteps\n  Ain't no tellin' what felon could die in the hood next\n\n  (Interlude: Killah Priest)\n  Yeah baby, Black Market, lift ya glass\n\n  (Tragedy Khadafi)\n  Yeah, why some sinners got the hood wroten\n  I'm outspoken, the general's spittin' minerals\n  At criminals lotust, allow me to catch your attention\n  Focus on the next dosage, smokers and dopers\n  In the hood where it's hopeless, thus he has arrived\n  The black prince, now, will he survive, yeah, son\n  I don't know cuz I'm bent, it said his mom was a virgin\n  And his pops was a carpenter, good with his hands\n  And nice with the revolvers, and a brown skinned complexion\n  Wooly hair, man with twelve killers, live niggaz\n  They met up in Times Square, true story, how you know God?\n  Cuz I was right there, we broke bread\n  Bliss me three times, I held my head, said my disciples\n  Will soon have me dead, that's when the D's rushed through\n  Yo, pardon you, reached under my cougi robe, and grabbed my God-U\n  They was comin' through like Nazareth Jews, yo, I was through\n\n  (Interlude: Killah Priest)\n  Here's a toast to Black Market, ya'll\n\n  (Killah Priest)\n  Time to time, things change, but the realer alway remain\n  The hood, the life, Black Market, we the voice of the people\n  Live it out, whether right or illegal, feel me?\n"},{"id":31504099,"name":"Black Market","trackName":"Black Market","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"The Black Market Militia","duration":292.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Killah Priest)\nYeah, knawhatimean, Killah Priest\nI changed my name, man, it's Leo Angel now\nKnawhatimean? Yo, this is Black Market\nKnawhatimean? Trag', Will Cooper, yankee, knowhatimean, uh\n\n(Killah Priest)\nFirst and foremost, we let our jobs toast, and sing bravo\nDrink the red wine, the sands of time, stampeded by a million broncos\nThrough the congo, beneath the cosmos, Priest the 5th apostle\nI'm like Picasso, I paint a hot flow, the canvas is your mind\nWhen you visualize, you can see it like an art show\nIt's warm like a bullet goin' through the Pope shirt\nSinkin' in the lungs of the quiet Cardinal\nI'm like Leonardo Da Vinci, my pen squeeze out sculptures\nHigh, like a ski Alpen, grease with my feet stretched out\nOn a sheik sofa, turn that beat loud, I'm bout to freestyle, soldiers\nMy rhyme show the depths, like a rich photographer in Yugoslavia\nTo Romania, fills whole stadiums, to them Hungarians, that's done carryin'\nTo Bogaria, to the Bocan peninsula, the flow turn vocals into pictures\nThe beauty is like the snow fallin' in the winter\nRhymes, are like icons of heroin adicts\nWith fiends, with their bare arms, scratchin'\nThey palms practice, the plan that the white, can't craft to\nTurn our people backwards, in black hoods to Spanish Harlem\nThe plan is Gotham, and I'm Batman, amongst these crack lands\nI hold revolvers, listen to the soul of Marvin\nTo bring back the promise, it's Black Market\n\n(Interlude: William Cooper)\nChill, Priest, yo chill\nCuz you got William Cooper in here\nYou know this Black Market, you got Tragedy Khadafi\nYou got Razah the Renaissance --\n\n(William Cooper)\nStroll through the tunnels of death, fighting the devil\nEvery night go to battle, squeeze that nine milli' metal\nUntil that beat settles, plus randomly complete me\nCuz they all beneath me, when night falls, we speak in tepee's\nMy peace pipes are Philly, demons grill me\nIt takes a proverb and a chronic herb to thrill me\nI keep pennin' for a moment, second amendment, I own it\nJust give me a minute, I'm zonin', like Pagan prisons, I'm thronin'\nSay my name, vision a Roman, the Trojan spittin' on omens\nWhy shogun never have a slow gun, trust no one\nBut Market fam, you know it's on, when the flag market's land\nStick it in the soil, we only toast with the loyal\n\n(Interlude: Hell Razah)\nDrink up, breadren, get off the grounds, break bread\nUh-huh, yeah, take this jewel\n\n(Hell Razah)\nIn the hood, guns go off, advise you, to don't show off\nYou can die in the streets, or the seat of your Porsche\nI seen drama back off, when you handle the boss\nBurn a cross on the White House porch, with no remorse\nFour horses of apocalypse, hidin' politics\nCommon sense, where the poor's oppress, a prophet is\nHe maybe live in a project crib, the more hard livin' it is\nMothers be abortionin' kids, birth control\nThe few will make it, most of them fold\nI'mma break it when it's cold, or a tissue to a runny nose\nAnd when we die, is the answer that God knows\nTil then, tell the angel of death, he's no threat\nJesus wept, when Lazarus left, he got vexed\nHe symbolic to that parable, follow the footsteps\nAin't no tellin' what felon could die in the hood next\n\n(Interlude: Killah Priest)\nYeah baby, Black Market, lift ya glass\n\n(Tragedy Khadafi)\nYeah, why some sinners got the hood wroten\nI'm outspoken, the general's spittin' minerals\nAt criminals lotust, allow me to catch your attention\nFocus on the next dosage, smokers and dopers\nIn the hood where it's hopeless, thus he has arrived\nThe black prince, now, will he survive, yeah, son\nI don't know cuz I'm bent, it said his mom was a virgin\nAnd his pops was a carpenter, good with his hands\nAnd nice with the revolvers, and a brown skinned complexion\nWooly hair, man with twelve killers, live niggaz\nThey met up in Times Square, true story, how you know God?\nCuz I was right there, we broke bread\nBliss me three times, I held my head, said my disciples\nWill soon have me dead, that's when the D's rushed through\nYo, pardon you, reached under my cougi robe, and grabbed my God-U\nThey was comin' through like Nazareth Jews, yo, I was through\n\n(Interlude: Killah Priest)\nHere's a toast to Black Market, ya'll\n\n(Killah Priest)\nTime to time, things change, but the realer alway remain\nThe hood, the life, Black Market, we the voice of the people\nLive it out, whether right or illegal, feel me?","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Black Market\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: The Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 292000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Killah Priest)\n  Yeah, knawhatimean, Killah Priest\n  I changed my name, man, it's Leo Angel now\n  Knawhatimean? Yo, this is Black Market\n  Knawhatimean? Trag', Will Cooper, yankee, knowhatimean, uh\n\n  (Killah Priest)\n  First and foremost, we let our jobs toast, and sing bravo\n  Drink the red wine, the sands of time, stampeded by a million broncos\n  Through the congo, beneath the cosmos, Priest the 5th apostle\n  I'm like Picasso, I paint a hot flow, the canvas is your mind\n  When you visualize, you can see it like an art show\n  It's warm like a bullet goin' through the Pope shirt\n  Sinkin' in the lungs of the quiet Cardinal\n  I'm like Leonardo Da Vinci, my pen squeeze out sculptures\n  High, like a ski Alpen, grease with my feet stretched out\n  On a sheik sofa, turn that beat loud, I'm bout to freestyle, soldiers\n  My rhyme show the depths, like a rich photographer in Yugoslavia\n  To Romania, fills whole stadiums, to them Hungarians, that's done carryin'\n  To Bogaria, to the Bocan peninsula, the flow turn vocals into pictures\n  The beauty is like the snow fallin' in the winter\n  Rhymes, are like icons of heroin adicts\n  With fiends, with their bare arms, scratchin'\n  They palms practice, the plan that the white, can't craft to\n  Turn our people backwards, in black hoods to Spanish Harlem\n  The plan is Gotham, and I'm Batman, amongst these crack lands\n  I hold revolvers, listen to the soul of Marvin\n  To bring back the promise, it's Black Market\n\n  (Interlude: William Cooper)\n  Chill, Priest, yo chill\n  Cuz you got William Cooper in here\n  You know this Black Market, you got Tragedy Khadafi\n  You got Razah the Renaissance --\n\n  (William Cooper)\n  Stroll through the tunnels of death, fighting the devil\n  Every night go to battle, squeeze that nine milli' metal\n  Until that beat settles, plus randomly complete me\n  Cuz they all beneath me, when night falls, we speak in tepee's\n  My peace pipes are Philly, demons grill me\n  It takes a proverb and a chronic herb to thrill me\n  I keep pennin' for a moment, second amendment, I own it\n  Just give me a minute, I'm zonin', like Pagan prisons, I'm thronin'\n  Say my name, vision a Roman, the Trojan spittin' on omens\n  Why shogun never have a slow gun, trust no one\n  But Market fam, you know it's on, when the flag market's land\n  Stick it in the soil, we only toast with the loyal\n\n  (Interlude: Hell Razah)\n  Drink up, breadren, get off the grounds, break bread\n  Uh-huh, yeah, take this jewel\n\n  (Hell Razah)\n  In the hood, guns go off, advise you, to don't show off\n  You can die in the streets, or the seat of your Porsche\n  I seen drama back off, when you handle the boss\n  Burn a cross on the White House porch, with no remorse\n  Four horses of apocalypse, hidin' politics\n  Common sense, where the poor's oppress, a prophet is\n  He maybe live in a project crib, the more hard livin' it is\n  Mothers be abortionin' kids, birth control\n  The few will make it, most of them fold\n  I'mma break it when it's cold, or a tissue to a runny nose\n  And when we die, is the answer that God knows\n  Til then, tell the angel of death, he's no threat\n  Jesus wept, when Lazarus left, he got vexed\n  He symbolic to that parable, follow the footsteps\n  Ain't no tellin' what felon could die in the hood next\n\n  (Interlude: Killah Priest)\n  Yeah baby, Black Market, lift ya glass\n\n  (Tragedy Khadafi)\n  Yeah, why some sinners got the hood wroten\n  I'm outspoken, the general's spittin' minerals\n  At criminals lotust, allow me to catch your attention\n  Focus on the next dosage, smokers and dopers\n  In the hood where it's hopeless, thus he has arrived\n  The black prince, now, will he survive, yeah, son\n  I don't know cuz I'm bent, it said his mom was a virgin\n  And his pops was a carpenter, good with his hands\n  And nice with the revolvers, and a brown skinned complexion\n  Wooly hair, man with twelve killers, live niggaz\n  They met up in Times Square, true story, how you know God?\n  Cuz I was right there, we broke bread\n  Bliss me three times, I held my head, said my disciples\n  Will soon have me dead, that's when the D's rushed through\n  Yo, pardon you, reached under my cougi robe, and grabbed my God-U\n  They was comin' through like Nazareth Jews, yo, I was through\n\n  (Interlude: Killah Priest)\n  Here's a toast to Black Market, ya'll\n\n  (Killah Priest)\n  Time to time, things change, but the realer alway remain\n  The hood, the life, Black Market, we the voice of the people\n  Live it out, whether right or illegal, feel me?\n"},{"id":22379717,"name":"Black Market","trackName":"Black Market","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"The Black Market Militia (Explicit)","duration":291.787792,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Killah Priest)\nYeah, knawhatimean, Killah Priest\nI changed my name, man, it's Leo Angel now\nKnawhatimean? Yo, this is Black Market\nKnawhatimean? Trag', Will Cooper, yankee, knowhatimean, uh\n\n(Killah Priest)\nFirst and foremost, we let our jobs toast, and sing bravo\nDrink the red wine, the sands of time, stampeded by a million broncos\nThrough the congo, beneath the cosmos, Priest the 5th apostle\nI'm like Picasso, I paint a hot flow, the canvas is your mind\nWhen you visualize, you can see it like an art show\nIt's warm like a bullet goin' through the Pope shirt\nSinkin' in the lungs of the quiet Cardinal\nI'm like Leonardo Da Vinci, my pen squeeze out sculptures\nHigh, like a ski Alpen, grease with my feet stretched out\nOn a sheik sofa, turn that beat loud, I'm bout to freestyle, soldiers\nMy rhyme show the depths, like a rich photographer in Yugoslavia\nTo Romania, fills whole stadiums, to them Hungarians, that's done carryin'\nTo Bogaria, to the Bocan peninsula, the flow turn vocals into pictures\nThe beauty is like the snow fallin' in the winter\nRhymes, are like icons of heroin adicts\nWith fiends, with their bare arms, scratchin'\nThey palms practice, the plan that the white, can't craft to\nTurn our people backwards, in black hoods to Spanish Harlem\nThe plan is Gotham, and I'm Batman, amongst these crack lands\nI hold revolvers, listen to the soul of Marvin\nTo bring back the promise, it's Black Market\n\n(Interlude: William Cooper)\nChill, Priest, yo chill\nCuz you got William Cooper in here\nYou know this Black Market, you got Tragedy Khadafi\nYou got Razah the Renaissance --\n\n(William Cooper)\nStroll through the tunnels of death, fighting the devil\nEvery night go to battle, squeeze that nine milli' metal\nUntil that beat settles, plus randomly complete me\nCuz they all beneath me, when night falls, we speak in tepee's\nMy peace pipes are Philly, demons grill me\nIt takes a proverb and a chronic herb to thrill me\nI keep pennin' for a moment, second amendment, I own it\nJust give me a minute, I'm zonin', like Pagan prisons, I'm thronin'\nSay my name, vision a Roman, the Trojan spittin' on omens\nWhy shogun never have a slow gun, trust no one\nBut Market fam, you know it's on, when the flag market's land\nStick it in the soil, we only toast with the loyal\n\n(Interlude: Hell Razah)\nDrink up, breadren, get off the grounds, break bread\nUh-huh, yeah, take this jewel\n\n(Hell Razah)\nIn the hood, guns go off, advise you, to don't show off\nYou can die in the streets, or the seat of your Porsche\nI seen drama back off, when you handle the boss\nBurn a cross on the White House porch, with no remorse\nFour horses of apocalypse, hidin' politics\nCommon sense, where the poor's oppress, a prophet is\nHe maybe live in a project crib, the more hard livin' it is\nMothers be abortionin' kids, birth control\nThe few will make it, most of them fold\nI'mma break it when it's cold, or a tissue to a runny nose\nAnd when we die, is the answer that God knows\nTil then, tell the angel of death, he's no threat\nJesus wept, when Lazarus left, he got vexed\nHe symbolic to that parable, follow the footsteps\nAin't no tellin' what felon could die in the hood next\n\n(Interlude: Killah Priest)\nYeah baby, Black Market, lift ya glass\n\n(Tragedy Khadafi)\nYeah, why some sinners got the hood wroten\nI'm outspoken, the general's spittin' minerals\nAt criminals lotust, allow me to catch your attention\nFocus on the next dosage, smokers and dopers\nIn the hood where it's hopeless, thus he has arrived\nThe black prince, now, will he survive, yeah, son\nI don't know cuz I'm bent, it said his mom was a virgin\nAnd his pops was a carpenter, good with his hands\nAnd nice with the revolvers, and a brown skinned complexion\nWooly hair, man with twelve killers, live niggaz\nThey met up in Times Square, true story, how you know God?\nCuz I was right there, we broke bread\nBliss me three times, I held my head, said my disciples\nWill soon have me dead, that's when the D's rushed through\nYo, pardon you, reached under my cougi robe, and grabbed my God-U\nThey was comin' through like Nazareth Jews, yo, I was through\n\n(Interlude: Killah Priest)\nHere's a toast to Black Market, ya'll\n\n(Killah Priest)\nTime to time, things change, but the realer alway remain\nThe hood, the life, Black Market, we the voice of the people\nLive it out, whether right or illegal, feel me?","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Black Market\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: The Black Market Militia (Explicit)\n  duration_ms: 291788\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Killah Priest)\n  Yeah, knawhatimean, Killah Priest\n  I changed my name, man, it's Leo Angel now\n  Knawhatimean? Yo, this is Black Market\n  Knawhatimean? Trag', Will Cooper, yankee, knowhatimean, uh\n\n  (Killah Priest)\n  First and foremost, we let our jobs toast, and sing bravo\n  Drink the red wine, the sands of time, stampeded by a million broncos\n  Through the congo, beneath the cosmos, Priest the 5th apostle\n  I'm like Picasso, I paint a hot flow, the canvas is your mind\n  When you visualize, you can see it like an art show\n  It's warm like a bullet goin' through the Pope shirt\n  Sinkin' in the lungs of the quiet Cardinal\n  I'm like Leonardo Da Vinci, my pen squeeze out sculptures\n  High, like a ski Alpen, grease with my feet stretched out\n  On a sheik sofa, turn that beat loud, I'm bout to freestyle, soldiers\n  My rhyme show the depths, like a rich photographer in Yugoslavia\n  To Romania, fills whole stadiums, to them Hungarians, that's done carryin'\n  To Bogaria, to the Bocan peninsula, the flow turn vocals into pictures\n  The beauty is like the snow fallin' in the winter\n  Rhymes, are like icons of heroin adicts\n  With fiends, with their bare arms, scratchin'\n  They palms practice, the plan that the white, can't craft to\n  Turn our people backwards, in black hoods to Spanish Harlem\n  The plan is Gotham, and I'm Batman, amongst these crack lands\n  I hold revolvers, listen to the soul of Marvin\n  To bring back the promise, it's Black Market\n\n  (Interlude: William Cooper)\n  Chill, Priest, yo chill\n  Cuz you got William Cooper in here\n  You know this Black Market, you got Tragedy Khadafi\n  You got Razah the Renaissance --\n\n  (William Cooper)\n  Stroll through the tunnels of death, fighting the devil\n  Every night go to battle, squeeze that nine milli' metal\n  Until that beat settles, plus randomly complete me\n  Cuz they all beneath me, when night falls, we speak in tepee's\n  My peace pipes are Philly, demons grill me\n  It takes a proverb and a chronic herb to thrill me\n  I keep pennin' for a moment, second amendment, I own it\n  Just give me a minute, I'm zonin', like Pagan prisons, I'm thronin'\n  Say my name, vision a Roman, the Trojan spittin' on omens\n  Why shogun never have a slow gun, trust no one\n  But Market fam, you know it's on, when the flag market's land\n  Stick it in the soil, we only toast with the loyal\n\n  (Interlude: Hell Razah)\n  Drink up, breadren, get off the grounds, break bread\n  Uh-huh, yeah, take this jewel\n\n  (Hell Razah)\n  In the hood, guns go off, advise you, to don't show off\n  You can die in the streets, or the seat of your Porsche\n  I seen drama back off, when you handle the boss\n  Burn a cross on the White House porch, with no remorse\n  Four horses of apocalypse, hidin' politics\n  Common sense, where the poor's oppress, a prophet is\n  He maybe live in a project crib, the more hard livin' it is\n  Mothers be abortionin' kids, birth control\n  The few will make it, most of them fold\n  I'mma break it when it's cold, or a tissue to a runny nose\n  And when we die, is the answer that God knows\n  Til then, tell the angel of death, he's no threat\n  Jesus wept, when Lazarus left, he got vexed\n  He symbolic to that parable, follow the footsteps\n  Ain't no tellin' what felon could die in the hood next\n\n  (Interlude: Killah Priest)\n  Yeah baby, Black Market, lift ya glass\n\n  (Tragedy Khadafi)\n  Yeah, why some sinners got the hood wroten\n  I'm outspoken, the general's spittin' minerals\n  At criminals lotust, allow me to catch your attention\n  Focus on the next dosage, smokers and dopers\n  In the hood where it's hopeless, thus he has arrived\n  The black prince, now, will he survive, yeah, son\n  I don't know cuz I'm bent, it said his mom was a virgin\n  And his pops was a carpenter, good with his hands\n  And nice with the revolvers, and a brown skinned complexion\n  Wooly hair, man with twelve killers, live niggaz\n  They met up in Times Square, true story, how you know God?\n  Cuz I was right there, we broke bread\n  Bliss me three times, I held my head, said my disciples\n  Will soon have me dead, that's when the D's rushed through\n  Yo, pardon you, reached under my cougi robe, and grabbed my God-U\n  They was comin' through like Nazareth Jews, yo, I was through\n\n  (Interlude: Killah Priest)\n  Here's a toast to Black Market, ya'll\n\n  (Killah Priest)\n  Time to time, things change, but the realer alway remain\n  The hood, the life, Black Market, we the voice of the people\n  Live it out, whether right or illegal, feel me?\n"},{"id":22966862,"name":"Think Market","trackName":"Think Market","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":223.141175,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Market, gotta relax, exoticness\nYo this is it, history in the making\nKillah Priest, Tragedy, and Black Market\nWilliam Booth, yo, Will, yo we gotta do this, son\nHahaha, history in the making, y'all, yeah\n\nNiggaz wanna know what I base my theories in\nHebrew literature, face Nigerian\nBlack Market, we form the great pyramids\nMy poetry's deep, call it Shakespearing\nPolice harass, cuz the jury and the G I'm in\nI speak on the past, Egyptian late periods\nLook at my pad, misused shapes and imageness\nConscious lyrics, spoken through hieroglyphics\nWe cuenin' it for him, the God is mystic\nI'm havin', constant dreams, that I'm Constantine\nSurrounded by heaven's angels, with armored wings\nSee dead people, needles in the arms of fiends\nThe messiah of the ghetto, black Madonna seed\nRevolver's squeeze, crack addiction, jars of weed\nCourt cases, mad convictions, they followed me\nSometime, my past is hollow, but I got and dodge y'all lead\n\nBack down soldiers, we blow gats\nMilitary thoughts, we attack like silverbacks\nWith automatic weaponry, our needs of ammunition\nWe ain't come to talk, we came to handle our business\n\nInconspicous crime shit, the criminals grind with\nFast forward, rewind it, the mental, we blinded\nLost my soul in the hood, but only God could find it\nInadvertently the government wanna silence and murder me\nYa'll been trapped in the cage, and call a soul and it's hurting me\nI'm just, runnin' bleedin' and leakin', I'm barely breathin', I'm wheezin'\nHead to the sky, and I'm just lookin' for reasons\nAnd even if I'm leavin', the price of freedom is death\nOur we achieving, what's really left, broken legacy\nDeath of a nation, eracin' evil\nWe facin', sellin' our souls to Satan\n\nWe the tree, got planet to feed the Earth and his children\nOur pastor's smokin' the mirrors, and all our check revisit\nWhen evil pours through your pores, banana clips will fill you\nIt doesn't get any realer, the chalk out, mindin' your figure\nBut an eye for an eye, I had the whole hood blind\nIt's half the reason, half the hood, is right now, doing time\nWhat's done in the dark, could come to light in due time\nTurn my cheek to grapevines, until seen by third eye\nBe under heaven's gates, with bullets, we then fly\nPray the most high, brings my soul upon flatline\nOn top of the world, to our mountain of crime\nLook, behold a pale horse, in just a blink of an eye\nBut actions speak louder than words, when I just off this\nFrom the womb to the coffin, scalin' to suit, you caution\nThe Black Market, hood news, Thug Cooper reporting\nJust givin' y'all fair warning, a new day is dawning\n\nWorld, world, world, world\nMarket, market, market, market, market\nThink, think, think, think, true, true\nLife, life, life, life, life","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Think Market\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 223141\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Market, gotta relax, exoticness\n  Yo this is it, history in the making\n  Killah Priest, Tragedy, and Black Market\n  William Booth, yo, Will, yo we gotta do this, son\n  Hahaha, history in the making, y'all, yeah\n\n  Niggaz wanna know what I base my theories in\n  Hebrew literature, face Nigerian\n  Black Market, we form the great pyramids\n  My poetry's deep, call it Shakespearing\n  Police harass, cuz the jury and the G I'm in\n  I speak on the past, Egyptian late periods\n  Look at my pad, misused shapes and imageness\n  Conscious lyrics, spoken through hieroglyphics\n  We cuenin' it for him, the God is mystic\n  I'm havin', constant dreams, that I'm Constantine\n  Surrounded by heaven's angels, with armored wings\n  See dead people, needles in the arms of fiends\n  The messiah of the ghetto, black Madonna seed\n  Revolver's squeeze, crack addiction, jars of weed\n  Court cases, mad convictions, they followed me\n  Sometime, my past is hollow, but I got and dodge y'all lead\n\n  Back down soldiers, we blow gats\n  Military thoughts, we attack like silverbacks\n  With automatic weaponry, our needs of ammunition\n  We ain't come to talk, we came to handle our business\n\n  Inconspicous crime shit, the criminals grind with\n  Fast forward, rewind it, the mental, we blinded\n  Lost my soul in the hood, but only God could find it\n  Inadvertently the government wanna silence and murder me\n  Ya'll been trapped in the cage, and call a soul and it's hurting me\n  I'm just, runnin' bleedin' and leakin', I'm barely breathin', I'm wheezin'\n  Head to the sky, and I'm just lookin' for reasons\n  And even if I'm leavin', the price of freedom is death\n  Our we achieving, what's really left, broken legacy\n  Death of a nation, eracin' evil\n  We facin', sellin' our souls to Satan\n\n  We the tree, got planet to feed the Earth and his children\n  Our pastor's smokin' the mirrors, and all our check revisit\n  When evil pours through your pores, banana clips will fill you\n  It doesn't get any realer, the chalk out, mindin' your figure\n  But an eye for an eye, I had the whole hood blind\n  It's half the reason, half the hood, is right now, doing time\n  What's done in the dark, could come to light in due time\n  Turn my cheek to grapevines, until seen by third eye\n  Be under heaven's gates, with bullets, we then fly\n  Pray the most high, brings my soul upon flatline\n  On top of the world, to our mountain of crime\n  Look, behold a pale horse, in just a blink of an eye\n  But actions speak louder than words, when I just off this\n  From the womb to the coffin, scalin' to suit, you caution\n  The Black Market, hood news, Thug Cooper reporting\n  Just givin' y'all fair warning, a new day is dawning\n\n  World, world, world, world\n  Market, market, market, market, market\n  Think, think, think, think, true, true\n  Life, life, life, life, life\n"},{"id":31964445,"name":"Think Market","trackName":"Think Market","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"The Black Market Militia","duration":223.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Market, gotta relax, exoticness\nYo this is it, history in the making\nKillah Priest, Tragedy, and Black Market\nWilliam Booth, yo, Will, yo we gotta do this, son\nHahaha, history in the making, y'all, yeah\n\nNiggaz wanna know what I base my theories in\nHebrew literature, face Nigerian\nBlack Market, we form the great pyramids\nMy poetry's deep, call it Shakespearing\nPolice harass, cuz the jury and the G I'm in\nI speak on the past, Egyptian late periods\nLook at my pad, misused shapes and imageness\nConscious lyrics, spoken through hieroglyphics\nWe cuenin' it for him, the God is mystic\nI'm havin', constant dreams, that I'm Constantine\nSurrounded by heaven's angels, with armored wings\nSee dead people, needles in the arms of fiends\nThe messiah of the ghetto, black Madonna seed\nRevolver's squeeze, crack addiction, jars of weed\nCourt cases, mad convictions, they followed me\nSometime, my past is hollow, but I got and dodge y'all lead\n\nBack down soldiers, we blow gats\nMilitary thoughts, we attack like silverbacks\nWith automatic weaponry, our needs of ammunition\nWe ain't come to talk, we came to handle our business\n\nInconspicous crime shit, the criminals grind with\nFast forward, rewind it, the mental, we blinded\nLost my soul in the hood, but only God could find it\nInadvertently the government wanna silence and murder me\nYa'll been trapped in the cage, and call a soul and it's hurting me\nI'm just, runnin' bleedin' and leakin', I'm barely breathin', I'm wheezin'\nHead to the sky, and I'm just lookin' for reasons\nAnd even if I'm leavin', the price of freedom is death\nOur we achieving, what's really left, broken legacy\nDeath of a nation, eracin' evil\nWe facin', sellin' our souls to Satan\n\nWe the tree, got planet to feed the Earth and his children\nOur pastor's smokin' the mirrors, and all our check revisit\nWhen evil pours through your pores, banana clips will fill you\nIt doesn't get any realer, the chalk out, mindin' your figure\nBut an eye for an eye, I had the whole hood blind\nIt's half the reason, half the hood, is right now, doing time\nWhat's done in the dark, could come to light in due time\nTurn my cheek to grapevines, until seen by third eye\nBe under heaven's gates, with bullets, we then fly\nPray the most high, brings my soul upon flatline\nOn top of the world, to our mountain of crime\nLook, behold a pale horse, in just a blink of an eye\nBut actions speak louder than words, when I just off this\nFrom the womb to the coffin, scalin' to suit, you caution\nThe Black Market, hood news, Thug Cooper reporting\nJust givin' y'all fair warning, a new day is dawning\n\nWorld, world, world, world\nMarket, market, market, market, market\nThink, think, think, think, true, true\nLife, life, life, life, life","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Think Market\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: The Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 223000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Market, gotta relax, exoticness\n  Yo this is it, history in the making\n  Killah Priest, Tragedy, and Black Market\n  William Booth, yo, Will, yo we gotta do this, son\n  Hahaha, history in the making, y'all, yeah\n\n  Niggaz wanna know what I base my theories in\n  Hebrew literature, face Nigerian\n  Black Market, we form the great pyramids\n  My poetry's deep, call it Shakespearing\n  Police harass, cuz the jury and the G I'm in\n  I speak on the past, Egyptian late periods\n  Look at my pad, misused shapes and imageness\n  Conscious lyrics, spoken through hieroglyphics\n  We cuenin' it for him, the God is mystic\n  I'm havin', constant dreams, that I'm Constantine\n  Surrounded by heaven's angels, with armored wings\n  See dead people, needles in the arms of fiends\n  The messiah of the ghetto, black Madonna seed\n  Revolver's squeeze, crack addiction, jars of weed\n  Court cases, mad convictions, they followed me\n  Sometime, my past is hollow, but I got and dodge y'all lead\n\n  Back down soldiers, we blow gats\n  Military thoughts, we attack like silverbacks\n  With automatic weaponry, our needs of ammunition\n  We ain't come to talk, we came to handle our business\n\n  Inconspicous crime shit, the criminals grind with\n  Fast forward, rewind it, the mental, we blinded\n  Lost my soul in the hood, but only God could find it\n  Inadvertently the government wanna silence and murder me\n  Ya'll been trapped in the cage, and call a soul and it's hurting me\n  I'm just, runnin' bleedin' and leakin', I'm barely breathin', I'm wheezin'\n  Head to the sky, and I'm just lookin' for reasons\n  And even if I'm leavin', the price of freedom is death\n  Our we achieving, what's really left, broken legacy\n  Death of a nation, eracin' evil\n  We facin', sellin' our souls to Satan\n\n  We the tree, got planet to feed the Earth and his children\n  Our pastor's smokin' the mirrors, and all our check revisit\n  When evil pours through your pores, banana clips will fill you\n  It doesn't get any realer, the chalk out, mindin' your figure\n  But an eye for an eye, I had the whole hood blind\n  It's half the reason, half the hood, is right now, doing time\n  What's done in the dark, could come to light in due time\n  Turn my cheek to grapevines, until seen by third eye\n  Be under heaven's gates, with bullets, we then fly\n  Pray the most high, brings my soul upon flatline\n  On top of the world, to our mountain of crime\n  Look, behold a pale horse, in just a blink of an eye\n  But actions speak louder than words, when I just off this\n  From the womb to the coffin, scalin' to suit, you caution\n  The Black Market, hood news, Thug Cooper reporting\n  Just givin' y'all fair warning, a new day is dawning\n\n  World, world, world, world\n  Market, market, market, market, market\n  Think, think, think, think, true, true\n  Life, life, life, life, life\n"},{"id":30975591,"name":"Think Market","trackName":"Think Market","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"The Black Market Militia (Explicit)","duration":223.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Market, gotta relax, exoticness\nYo this is it, history in the making\nKillah Priest, Tragedy, and Black Market\nWilliam Booth, yo, Will, yo we gotta do this, son\nHahaha, history in the making, y'all, yeah\n\nNiggaz wanna know what I base my theories in\nHebrew literature, face Nigerian\nBlack Market, we form the great pyramids\nMy poetry's deep, call it Shakespearing\nPolice harass, cuz the jury and the G I'm in\nI speak on the past, Egyptian late periods\nLook at my pad, misused shapes and imageness\nConscious lyrics, spoken through hieroglyphics\nWe cuenin' it for him, the God is mystic\nI'm havin', constant dreams, that I'm Constantine\nSurrounded by heaven's angels, with armored wings\nSee dead people, needles in the arms of fiends\nThe messiah of the ghetto, black Madonna seed\nRevolver's squeeze, crack addiction, jars of weed\nCourt cases, mad convictions, they followed me\nSometime, my past is hollow, but I got and dodge y'all lead\n\nBack down soldiers, we blow gats\nMilitary thoughts, we attack like silverbacks\nWith automatic weaponry, our needs of ammunition\nWe ain't come to talk, we came to handle our business\n\nInconspicous crime shit, the criminals grind with\nFast forward, rewind it, the mental, we blinded\nLost my soul in the hood, but only God could find it\nInadvertently the government wanna silence and murder me\nYa'll been trapped in the cage, and call a soul and it's hurting me\nI'm just, runnin' bleedin' and leakin', I'm barely breathin', I'm wheezin'\nHead to the sky, and I'm just lookin' for reasons\nAnd even if I'm leavin', the price of freedom is death\nOur we achieving, what's really left, broken legacy\nDeath of a nation, eracin' evil\nWe facin', sellin' our souls to Satan\n\nWe the tree, got planet to feed the Earth and his children\nOur pastor's smokin' the mirrors, and all our check revisit\nWhen evil pours through your pores, banana clips will fill you\nIt doesn't get any realer, the chalk out, mindin' your figure\nBut an eye for an eye, I had the whole hood blind\nIt's half the reason, half the hood, is right now, doing time\nWhat's done in the dark, could come to light in due time\nTurn my cheek to grapevines, until seen by third eye\nBe under heaven's gates, with bullets, we then fly\nPray the most high, brings my soul upon flatline\nOn top of the world, to our mountain of crime\nLook, behold a pale horse, in just a blink of an eye\nBut actions speak louder than words, when I just off this\nFrom the womb to the coffin, scalin' to suit, you caution\nThe Black Market, hood news, Thug Cooper reporting\nJust givin' y'all fair warning, a new day is dawning\n\nWorld, world, world, world\nMarket, market, market, market, market\nThink, think, think, think, true, true\nLife, life, life, life, life","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Think Market\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: The Black Market Militia (Explicit)\n  duration_ms: 223000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Market, gotta relax, exoticness\n  Yo this is it, history in the making\n  Killah Priest, Tragedy, and Black Market\n  William Booth, yo, Will, yo we gotta do this, son\n  Hahaha, history in the making, y'all, yeah\n\n  Niggaz wanna know what I base my theories in\n  Hebrew literature, face Nigerian\n  Black Market, we form the great pyramids\n  My poetry's deep, call it Shakespearing\n  Police harass, cuz the jury and the G I'm in\n  I speak on the past, Egyptian late periods\n  Look at my pad, misused shapes and imageness\n  Conscious lyrics, spoken through hieroglyphics\n  We cuenin' it for him, the God is mystic\n  I'm havin', constant dreams, that I'm Constantine\n  Surrounded by heaven's angels, with armored wings\n  See dead people, needles in the arms of fiends\n  The messiah of the ghetto, black Madonna seed\n  Revolver's squeeze, crack addiction, jars of weed\n  Court cases, mad convictions, they followed me\n  Sometime, my past is hollow, but I got and dodge y'all lead\n\n  Back down soldiers, we blow gats\n  Military thoughts, we attack like silverbacks\n  With automatic weaponry, our needs of ammunition\n  We ain't come to talk, we came to handle our business\n\n  Inconspicous crime shit, the criminals grind with\n  Fast forward, rewind it, the mental, we blinded\n  Lost my soul in the hood, but only God could find it\n  Inadvertently the government wanna silence and murder me\n  Ya'll been trapped in the cage, and call a soul and it's hurting me\n  I'm just, runnin' bleedin' and leakin', I'm barely breathin', I'm wheezin'\n  Head to the sky, and I'm just lookin' for reasons\n  And even if I'm leavin', the price of freedom is death\n  Our we achieving, what's really left, broken legacy\n  Death of a nation, eracin' evil\n  We facin', sellin' our souls to Satan\n\n  We the tree, got planet to feed the Earth and his children\n  Our pastor's smokin' the mirrors, and all our check revisit\n  When evil pours through your pores, banana clips will fill you\n  It doesn't get any realer, the chalk out, mindin' your figure\n  But an eye for an eye, I had the whole hood blind\n  It's half the reason, half the hood, is right now, doing time\n  What's done in the dark, could come to light in due time\n  Turn my cheek to grapevines, until seen by third eye\n  Be under heaven's gates, with bullets, we then fly\n  Pray the most high, brings my soul upon flatline\n  On top of the world, to our mountain of crime\n  Look, behold a pale horse, in just a blink of an eye\n  But actions speak louder than words, when I just off this\n  From the womb to the coffin, scalin' to suit, you caution\n  The Black Market, hood news, Thug Cooper reporting\n  Just givin' y'all fair warning, a new day is dawning\n\n  World, world, world, world\n  Market, market, market, market, market\n  Think, think, think, think, true, true\n  Life, life, life, life, life\n"},{"id":19106200,"name":"Timbo King - Righteous Talk","trackName":"Timbo King - Righteous Talk","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":175.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Killah Priest (old man) {Timbo King})\nGo ahead motherfucker, shit\nI don't know man, this motherfucker\nFirst day right, check it out, don't sit on the corner, man\nWe ain't talkin' bout you, we talkin' bout the same thing, man, motherfucker\n(I wanna see what goin' with the Black Market, I mean\nLike when I was coming up, it was like, you know\nMartin, and Malcolm, you know, I'm, I'm, kinda feeling like\nThe Black Market is on that energy, and that type of direction, man)\n{Yeah, basically, that's like, our forefathers right there)\n(All right) {the unit, knowwhatimean?} (all right)\n{That generation just guided us to what we is right now\nSo basically, you know, we just moving}\n(Slow motion, you know it kill me though\nWhen you got these brothas out here, talkin' bout\nThey thugs and they gangsta, to me, like Malcolm\nLike Malcolm, was a gangsta) {Yea, for real}\n(Like Huey P. Newton, now that was a gangsta, Timbo\nYou know, you reppin', like how ya'll brothas say\nYa'll reppin', ya'll reppin' like that brother?)\n{No, we reppin', like ya'll} Look at old man John right there, man\n(I just wanna see more life from you, you got alotta music out there\nEverybody running around talkin' bout, they this Unit, and\nKnowhatimean, gangsta, and all that, I just wanna see\nSome more life in the music, for the babies) {That's what's it's about, man\nWe know about that generation right there} (Check this out brother\nI mean, not to catch above, what I'm sayin', I gotta keep it movin')\n\n(Timbo King)\nYo, you know the saying, it's black people, eat too much grease\nCuz every diner in New York, is controlled by Greeks\nUntil my sons bust guns, like Paul Rover's son\nPolitical rebel, rollin' with a, army of bums\nHomeless, individuals, no government funds\nTell Colin Powell, he's forgot where it came from\nDrug deals turn sour, the bitter taste of money\nThe hood, been hoodwinked, we've been labeled as dummies\nEducation got the youth, like, fuck next period\nRather slang rocks, that's it, period\nA rich man, can't walk on the floors of heaven\nFahrenheit 9/11, got ya'll callin' your reverend\nYeah, I said it's wartime, like we fightin' in Baghdad\nWomen you tryin' to have, I've had that, done bagged that\nThe blood founder, call me Charles Drew\nYou need more that F.O.I., to guard you, when I barge through\nProducers want to charge 15 g's\nComin' into their studios with 15 G.D.'s\nBite the bullet, put the hit out on the President's head\nFor all the pain and the bloodshed","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Timbo King - Righteous Talk\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 175000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Killah Priest (old man) {Timbo King})\n  Go ahead motherfucker, shit\n  I don't know man, this motherfucker\n  First day right, check it out, don't sit on the corner, man\n  We ain't talkin' bout you, we talkin' bout the same thing, man, motherfucker\n  (I wanna see what goin' with the Black Market, I mean\n  Like when I was coming up, it was like, you know\n  Martin, and Malcolm, you know, I'm, I'm, kinda feeling like\n  The Black Market is on that energy, and that type of direction, man)\n  {Yeah, basically, that's like, our forefathers right there)\n  (All right) {the unit, knowwhatimean?} (all right)\n  {That generation just guided us to what we is right now\n  So basically, you know, we just moving}\n  (Slow motion, you know it kill me though\n  When you got these brothas out here, talkin' bout\n  They thugs and they gangsta, to me, like Malcolm\n  Like Malcolm, was a gangsta) {Yea, for real}\n  (Like Huey P. Newton, now that was a gangsta, Timbo\n  You know, you reppin', like how ya'll brothas say\n  Ya'll reppin', ya'll reppin' like that brother?)\n  {No, we reppin', like ya'll} Look at old man John right there, man\n  (I just wanna see more life from you, you got alotta music out there\n  Everybody running around talkin' bout, they this Unit, and\n  Knowhatimean, gangsta, and all that, I just wanna see\n  Some more life in the music, for the babies) {That's what's it's about, man\n  We know about that generation right there} (Check this out brother\n  I mean, not to catch above, what I'm sayin', I gotta keep it movin')\n\n  (Timbo King)\n  Yo, you know the saying, it's black people, eat too much grease\n  Cuz every diner in New York, is controlled by Greeks\n  Until my sons bust guns, like Paul Rover's son\n  Political rebel, rollin' with a, army of bums\n  Homeless, individuals, no government funds\n  Tell Colin Powell, he's forgot where it came from\n  Drug deals turn sour, the bitter taste of money\n  The hood, been hoodwinked, we've been labeled as dummies\n  Education got the youth, like, fuck next period\n  Rather slang rocks, that's it, period\n  A rich man, can't walk on the floors of heaven\n  Fahrenheit 9/11, got ya'll callin' your reverend\n  Yeah, I said it's wartime, like we fightin' in Baghdad\n  Women you tryin' to have, I've had that, done bagged that\n  The blood founder, call me Charles Drew\n  You need more that F.O.I., to guard you, when I barge through\n  Producers want to charge 15 g's\n  Comin' into their studios with 15 G.D.'s\n  Bite the bullet, put the hit out on the President's head\n  For all the pain and the bloodshed\n"},{"id":24108095,"name":"The Breath of Life","trackName":"The Breath of Life","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":193.466075,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah this is life\nThis is struggle\nThis my pain\nThis our pain\nThis our love\nThis our life\nThis our struggle\n\nWhat we live for\nWhat we die for\nIt's the stress\nIt's the test\nThis is my war\nThe words I live by\nI'll never run scared\nBut this is life\nThis is love\nThese are some fears\n\nIs little ghetto kids ever gonna see the sun?\nLook what that metal did, sad cause he was young\nOutside his funeral, do rags, white tees and funds\nIt's all I could do, make a path, here the preacher comes\nLittle Tasha's mom had a bad coke habit\nPissy stairways, lobby full of broke addicts\nBroken elevator next to the incinerator\nLord forgive me my whole life I have\nBeen against the bars on the window\nJars of that indo\nKeep us happy, thank God for our kinfolks\nSee em on the holidays, hope you not at funeral\nEveryday a dollar's made, hope your life is beautiful\nBut we let them llamas bang, y'all know the usual\nNever know a mama's pain till that black suit's on you\nBaby mom's stressing me, streets give me bad vibes\nBut I rep the hood life, live it till I flatline\n\nWhat we live for\nWhat we die for\nIt's the stress\nIt's the test\nThis is my war\nThe words I live by\nI'll never run scared\nBut this is life\nThis is love\nThese are some fears\nThe words I live by\nI'll never run scared\nBut this is life\nThis is love\nThese are some fears\nIt's the joy\nIt's the pain\nNothing compares\nIt's the hood\nLook around\nFeel it in the air\n\nA young soldier on the roof staring at the street\nHe never knew his fate would be decided by the beast\nTo say the very least, murdered by the white police\nThey kicked the door open, slugs tore his flesh apart\nThe moonlight made his blood glisten in the dark\nSeconds later he was dead, bullets in the heart\nI heard his mother scream in my dreams, I ain't sleep\nI try to break, feel my body tangled in the sheets\nAm I living? Am I dying? Tell me where I'm going\nLook at the sky asking why, really I ain't knowing\nTell me where's the justice? Heaven you need to hug us\nWhere they killing black babies and destroying mothers\nCops slaying brothers, I don't wanna count the numbers\nAre we lost in this world with no one to love us?\nAre we lost in this world with no one to love us?\nTimothy, we riding for you\n\nWhat we live for\nWhat we die for\nIt's the stress\nIt's the test\nThis is my war\nThe words I live by\nI'll never run scared\nBut this is life\nThis is love\nThese are some fears\nThe words I live by\nI'll never run scared\nBut this is life\nThis is love\nThese are some fears\nIt's the joy\nIt's the pain\nNothing compares\nIt's the hood\nLook around\nFeel it in the air","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Breath of Life\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 193466\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah this is life\n  This is struggle\n  This my pain\n  This our pain\n  This our love\n  This our life\n  This our struggle\n\n  What we live for\n  What we die for\n  It's the stress\n  It's the test\n  This is my war\n  The words I live by\n  I'll never run scared\n  But this is life\n  This is love\n  These are some fears\n\n  Is little ghetto kids ever gonna see the sun?\n  Look what that metal did, sad cause he was young\n  Outside his funeral, do rags, white tees and funds\n  It's all I could do, make a path, here the preacher comes\n  Little Tasha's mom had a bad coke habit\n  Pissy stairways, lobby full of broke addicts\n  Broken elevator next to the incinerator\n  Lord forgive me my whole life I have\n  Been against the bars on the window\n  Jars of that indo\n  Keep us happy, thank God for our kinfolks\n  See em on the holidays, hope you not at funeral\n  Everyday a dollar's made, hope your life is beautiful\n  But we let them llamas bang, y'all know the usual\n  Never know a mama's pain till that black suit's on you\n  Baby mom's stressing me, streets give me bad vibes\n  But I rep the hood life, live it till I flatline\n\n  What we live for\n  What we die for\n  It's the stress\n  It's the test\n  This is my war\n  The words I live by\n  I'll never run scared\n  But this is life\n  This is love\n  These are some fears\n  The words I live by\n  I'll never run scared\n  But this is life\n  This is love\n  These are some fears\n  It's the joy\n  It's the pain\n  Nothing compares\n  It's the hood\n  Look around\n  Feel it in the air\n\n  A young soldier on the roof staring at the street\n  He never knew his fate would be decided by the beast\n  To say the very least, murdered by the white police\n  They kicked the door open, slugs tore his flesh apart\n  The moonlight made his blood glisten in the dark\n  Seconds later he was dead, bullets in the heart\n  I heard his mother scream in my dreams, I ain't sleep\n  I try to break, feel my body tangled in the sheets\n  Am I living? Am I dying? Tell me where I'm going\n  Look at the sky asking why, really I ain't knowing\n  Tell me where's the justice? Heaven you need to hug us\n  Where they killing black babies and destroying mothers\n  Cops slaying brothers, I don't wanna count the numbers\n  Are we lost in this world with no one to love us?\n  Are we lost in this world with no one to love us?\n  Timothy, we riding for you\n\n  What we live for\n  What we die for\n  It's the stress\n  It's the test\n  This is my war\n  The words I live by\n  I'll never run scared\n  But this is life\n  This is love\n  These are some fears\n  The words I live by\n  I'll never run scared\n  But this is life\n  This is love\n  These are some fears\n  It's the joy\n  It's the pain\n  Nothing compares\n  It's the hood\n  Look around\n  Feel it in the air\n"},{"id":23595400,"name":"Righteous Talk","trackName":"Righteous Talk","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":175.07585,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Killah Priest (old man) {Timbo King})\nGo ahead motherfucker, shit\nI don't know man, this motherfucker\nFirst day right, check it out, don't sit on the corner, man\nWe ain't talkin' bout you, we talkin' bout the same thing, man, motherfucker\n(I wanna see what goin' with the Black Market, I mean\nLike when I was coming up, it was like, you know\nMartin, and Malcolm, you know, I'm, I'm, kinda feeling like\nThe Black Market is on that energy, and that type of direction, man)\n{Yeah, basically, that's like, our forefathers right there)\n(All right) {the unit, knowwhatimean?} (all right)\n{That generation just guided us to what we is right now\nSo basically, you know, we just moving}\n(Slow motion, you know it kill me though\nWhen you got these brothas out here, talkin' bout\nThey thugs and they gangsta, to me, like Malcolm\nLike Malcolm, was a gangsta) {Yea, for real}\n(Like Huey P. Newton, now that was a gangsta, Timbo\nYou know, you reppin', like how ya'll brothas say\nYa'll reppin', ya'll reppin' like that brother?)\n{No, we reppin', like ya'll} Look at old man John right there, man\n(I just wanna see more life from you, you got alotta music out there\nEverybody running around talkin' bout, they this Unit, and\nKnowhatimean, gangsta, and all that, I just wanna see\nSome more life in the music, for the babies) {That's what's it's about, man\nWe know about that generation right there} (Check this out brother\nI mean, not to catch above, what I'm sayin', I gotta keep it movin')\n\n(Timbo King)\nYo, you know the saying, it's black people, eat too much grease\nCuz every diner in New York, is controlled by Greeks\nUntil my sons bust guns, like Paul Rover's son\nPolitical rebel, rollin' with a, army of bums\nHomeless, individuals, no government funds\nTell Colin Powell, he's forgot where it came from\nDrug deals turn sour, the bitter taste of money\nThe hood, been hoodwinked, we've been labeled as dummies\nEducation got the youth, like, fuck next period\nRather slang rocks, that's it, period\nA rich man, can't walk on the floors of heaven\nFahrenheit 9/11, got ya'll callin' your reverend\nYeah, I said it's wartime, like we fightin' in Baghdad\nWomen you tryin' to have, I've had that, done bagged that\nThe blood founder, call me Charles Drew\nYou need more that F.O.I., to guard you, when I barge through\nProducers want to charge 15 g's\nComin' into their studios with 15 G.D.'s\nBite the bullet, put the hit out on the President's head\nFor all the pain and the bloodshed","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Righteous Talk\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 175076\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Killah Priest (old man) {Timbo King})\n  Go ahead motherfucker, shit\n  I don't know man, this motherfucker\n  First day right, check it out, don't sit on the corner, man\n  We ain't talkin' bout you, we talkin' bout the same thing, man, motherfucker\n  (I wanna see what goin' with the Black Market, I mean\n  Like when I was coming up, it was like, you know\n  Martin, and Malcolm, you know, I'm, I'm, kinda feeling like\n  The Black Market is on that energy, and that type of direction, man)\n  {Yeah, basically, that's like, our forefathers right there)\n  (All right) {the unit, knowwhatimean?} (all right)\n  {That generation just guided us to what we is right now\n  So basically, you know, we just moving}\n  (Slow motion, you know it kill me though\n  When you got these brothas out here, talkin' bout\n  They thugs and they gangsta, to me, like Malcolm\n  Like Malcolm, was a gangsta) {Yea, for real}\n  (Like Huey P. Newton, now that was a gangsta, Timbo\n  You know, you reppin', like how ya'll brothas say\n  Ya'll reppin', ya'll reppin' like that brother?)\n  {No, we reppin', like ya'll} Look at old man John right there, man\n  (I just wanna see more life from you, you got alotta music out there\n  Everybody running around talkin' bout, they this Unit, and\n  Knowhatimean, gangsta, and all that, I just wanna see\n  Some more life in the music, for the babies) {That's what's it's about, man\n  We know about that generation right there} (Check this out brother\n  I mean, not to catch above, what I'm sayin', I gotta keep it movin')\n\n  (Timbo King)\n  Yo, you know the saying, it's black people, eat too much grease\n  Cuz every diner in New York, is controlled by Greeks\n  Until my sons bust guns, like Paul Rover's son\n  Political rebel, rollin' with a, army of bums\n  Homeless, individuals, no government funds\n  Tell Colin Powell, he's forgot where it came from\n  Drug deals turn sour, the bitter taste of money\n  The hood, been hoodwinked, we've been labeled as dummies\n  Education got the youth, like, fuck next period\n  Rather slang rocks, that's it, period\n  A rich man, can't walk on the floors of heaven\n  Fahrenheit 9/11, got ya'll callin' your reverend\n  Yeah, I said it's wartime, like we fightin' in Baghdad\n  Women you tryin' to have, I've had that, done bagged that\n  The blood founder, call me Charles Drew\n  You need more that F.O.I., to guard you, when I barge through\n  Producers want to charge 15 g's\n  Comin' into their studios with 15 G.D.'s\n  Bite the bullet, put the hit out on the President's head\n  For all the pain and the bloodshed\n"},{"id":23290510,"name":"Gem Star's","trackName":"Gem Star's","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":231.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"[Intro: Killah Priest (Tragedy Khadafi)]\nYeah, pass that (word up, word up\nWord up, haha, that shit feel good right?\nKnowhatimean?) Yeah (Gem Star the Regime, straight up\nBlack Market the revolution) Yeah (Both sides of the coins)\nInside of this (You understand what we talkin' bout?) Uh-huh\n(We giving y'all fair warning)\n[Tragedy Khadafi]\nHot lead bust through iron pipes\nBlood drips from the corner of young thug's mouth, the hood life\nHis torn flesh, and his last bit of breath\nPulses, over death fless, homicide hover like vultures\nMarried the game, now the Earth's dirty and dulgis\nShould of seen him though, niggaz though his heart was the coldest\nLeft two seeds, little son Rod was the oldest\nTwo baby mothers, blowing guns, duckin' under covers\nAnd his motto was, no one in this whole world love us\nFrom the womb to the tomb, presumed the youth's scars\nSoul on ice, tears of a killer, behind bars\nWhen you curse God, streets is a gangsta's graveyard\nMy advice, in the meantime, to you, is play hard\nIt's real, when you deal with the cards you dealt\nIt's not real, when your seeds feel the pain you felt\nBreak the curse, disciple, nigga, pave the way\nIt ain't gangsta, when your seeds go lay in the same grave\nThen die in the same hood, bleed on the same corner\nThe game's over, all of my niggaz, have fair warning\nFair warning... lie's life\n[Killah Priest]\nMy rhymes a guideline, for political thugs and O.G.'s\nWho blows trees in front of authorities, like giving a fuck\nRevolvers will squeeze, regardless to the warrants you read\nTrauma we bleed, before they put our wrists in them cuffs\nI sit in the cut, like I'm sixty two, and next Panther\nNarrator, screen writer for niggaz in handcuffs\nGangstas are freedom fighters doing life in the slammers\nWhere the strangers take advantage, when they tie bananas\nAnd I thank you, what the knife til we collide with them hammers\nPhantoms, they talk before we sell them\nCats yell from they gut, the shells come and their skeleton struck\nHow I survive that four/five, well I tell 'em it's luck\nFellas erupt, at chow time, shots heard from a loud nine\nFitted turbans, we feast and beneath her loud signs\nI don't care, we cripple you blood\nWhen cops come, get rid of them drugs\nFor revolution, grab that mask, pistol and glove\nThis is the love, black oils richer than blood\nI'm sick of the grudge, between vice laws and G.D.'s\nLatin Kings and Mieta's, it's that real shit, that hood lecture\n[William Cooper]\nYour future's outlined in chalk, when you tangle with dope\nIf you know what they risking, they eventually choke\nI put the flames to the smoke, your body leaks til y'all soap\nBlack Market's the vote, now we that uncooked coke\nThat smuggled in on boats, dippin' DEA coats\nPoppin' up like toast, so don't play me too close\nThe FBI and the Mob be like the Bloods and the Crips\nSeems like the root of all evil, leads to government chips\nIt's better to slip with the foot, then slip with the tongue\nFlash both sides of the coin, then the Yin and Yang forms\nKeep it straight, black and white, with no gray in my zone\nStand on top of my word, what I gave is my soul\nSo who do I owe? Dug myself up out of a hole\nAnd while y'all fightin' for gold, I'm fight the NWO\nSince twelve years old, I'se nowhere to get a burner\nBecause the breath of the devil, have you huggin' the corner\n[Chorus 2X: Killah Priest]\nAnd in the hood, we spit gem star's\nGivin' you fair warnings, for life lectures\nPuttin holes in your tecture\nOnly two ways to go, parole or the stretcher\nWe'd rather be on our thrones, holdin' our chesters","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Gem Star's\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 231000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  [Intro: Killah Priest (Tragedy Khadafi)]\n  Yeah, pass that (word up, word up\n  Word up, haha, that shit feel good right?\n  Knowhatimean?) Yeah (Gem Star the Regime, straight up\n  Black Market the revolution) Yeah (Both sides of the coins)\n  Inside of this (You understand what we talkin' bout?) Uh-huh\n  (We giving y'all fair warning)\n  [Tragedy Khadafi]\n  Hot lead bust through iron pipes\n  Blood drips from the corner of young thug's mouth, the hood life\n  His torn flesh, and his last bit of breath\n  Pulses, over death fless, homicide hover like vultures\n  Married the game, now the Earth's dirty and dulgis\n  Should of seen him though, niggaz though his heart was the coldest\n  Left two seeds, little son Rod was the oldest\n  Two baby mothers, blowing guns, duckin' under covers\n  And his motto was, no one in this whole world love us\n  From the womb to the tomb, presumed the youth's scars\n  Soul on ice, tears of a killer, behind bars\n  When you curse God, streets is a gangsta's graveyard\n  My advice, in the meantime, to you, is play hard\n  It's real, when you deal with the cards you dealt\n  It's not real, when your seeds feel the pain you felt\n  Break the curse, disciple, nigga, pave the way\n  It ain't gangsta, when your seeds go lay in the same grave\n  Then die in the same hood, bleed on the same corner\n  The game's over, all of my niggaz, have fair warning\n  Fair warning... lie's life\n  [Killah Priest]\n  My rhymes a guideline, for political thugs and O.G.'s\n  Who blows trees in front of authorities, like giving a fuck\n  Revolvers will squeeze, regardless to the warrants you read\n  Trauma we bleed, before they put our wrists in them cuffs\n  I sit in the cut, like I'm sixty two, and next Panther\n  Narrator, screen writer for niggaz in handcuffs\n  Gangstas are freedom fighters doing life in the slammers\n  Where the strangers take advantage, when they tie bananas\n  And I thank you, what the knife til we collide with them hammers\n  Phantoms, they talk before we sell them\n  Cats yell from they gut, the shells come and their skeleton struck\n  How I survive that four/five, well I tell 'em it's luck\n  Fellas erupt, at chow time, shots heard from a loud nine\n  Fitted turbans, we feast and beneath her loud signs\n  I don't care, we cripple you blood\n  When cops come, get rid of them drugs\n  For revolution, grab that mask, pistol and glove\n  This is the love, black oils richer than blood\n  I'm sick of the grudge, between vice laws and G.D.'s\n  Latin Kings and Mieta's, it's that real shit, that hood lecture\n  [William Cooper]\n  Your future's outlined in chalk, when you tangle with dope\n  If you know what they risking, they eventually choke\n  I put the flames to the smoke, your body leaks til y'all soap\n  Black Market's the vote, now we that uncooked coke\n  That smuggled in on boats, dippin' DEA coats\n  Poppin' up like toast, so don't play me too close\n  The FBI and the Mob be like the Bloods and the Crips\n  Seems like the root of all evil, leads to government chips\n  It's better to slip with the foot, then slip with the tongue\n  Flash both sides of the coin, then the Yin and Yang forms\n  Keep it straight, black and white, with no gray in my zone\n  Stand on top of my word, what I gave is my soul\n  So who do I owe? Dug myself up out of a hole\n  And while y'all fightin' for gold, I'm fight the NWO\n  Since twelve years old, I'se nowhere to get a burner\n  Because the breath of the devil, have you huggin' the corner\n  [Chorus 2X: Killah Priest]\n  And in the hood, we spit gem star's\n  Givin' you fair warnings, for life lectures\n  Puttin holes in your tecture\n  Only two ways to go, parole or the stretcher\n  We'd rather be on our thrones, holdin' our chesters\n"},{"id":22945885,"name":"Dead Street Scrolls","trackName":"Dead Street Scrolls","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":251.614625,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Killah Priest)\nBlack Market bitch, it's crazy, the album's here\nRight there, Black Market, Black Market\nWalk with us, yeah, the album's here now\nHappenin' now son, it's happening now, yeah\n\n(Chorus: Killah Priest, Hell Razah)\nThe dead street scrolls, we, the ones that cry\nThe dead street scrolls, we, the ones that ride\nThe dead street scrolls, we, the ones that cry\nThe dead street scrolls\n\n(Hell Razah)\nHold my hands, let's take a stroll\nIt was written like the dead street scrolls, now the truth unfolds\nThey thought I came here to empty the chrome, they envy my soul\nDiablo, off of the world, and tempt me with hoes\nMy holy blood drift from a rose, sweet Jerusalem\nMy home sweet home, where the Christ was grown\nNow it's BK where dice is thrown, here's a light\nCheck your 25 to life, over ice cream cones\nWhat you know about this microphone, royalties and the right to own\nWhen you're platinum and gold, too many followers and no leaders\nWe in the time, the young souls need us, to be our brother's keeper\nIt's Abel and Kain, way before labels and fame\nBrothers cryin' from the blood stains left in the rain\nTeardrops over open caskets, I'm just a genius in a straight jacket\nDon't have me write it backwards\n\n(Killah Priest)\nI reinvented myself, restored what was before\nThe Heavy Mental instrumentals explored\nVintage, Black Market prophets, we the heart of the projects\nSee it in a sentence, this is some trap with mob debts\nStreet fillers, from dealers to killers\nAnd I went buck, fifties across they face\nThis goes out, to hood niggaz that lost they way\nMom's flippin' at the welfare office, thought she was burned\nWe got plans to take the whole hood corporate\nDollar bills with my homey's face printed on 'em\nWe neighborhood wino's, the new prophets since Donald Goines\nPriest, the streets real, feel what I speak\nThis is more than just a hook or a Neptunes beat\nPharrell, no disrespect, but my eyes looked in the spec's\nI ain't a judge, no hidden agenda, yo, it should be 'I am a thug'\nIs love, I laugh til tears fill up my lids\nKick the rockets out the closet, and go out on my wig\nI spit the realest words, comin' from the hood\nC-4, cock bells, Market is all good\nGot the negro's written in the dead street scrolls\nPictures of gangstas with guns, in hood street clothes\nWe arm wrestle with the devil, I broke and seen whole\nWhen our others box with God, I let my heat go\nFor the people like Huey P., we the lost generation\nTil the preacher reads, our human plee\n\n(Chorus)\n\n(Tragedy Khadafi)\nI write novels like Claude Brown\nManchild in a Promised Land, all the hood children gather round\nSun Tzu gave me The Art of War\nRobert Greene gave me The 48 Laws, The Art of Seduction is nothing\nOsato told a life story, Alex Haley showed me some Roots\nMy ancestors, those who came before me\nElijah taught me how to eat to live, not to live to eat\nFrom the pig intestine, deduction of feet\nKing David gave me the book of psalms\nHuey Newton taught me how to a man, stand up and bear arms\nLearn the, the ways of the prophet, from Kalilda Brahm\nMohammed Alai Salam, from the Qu'ran\nIceberg Smith taught me how to move like a don\nWilliam Cooper showed me the pale horses\nI studied with John Bay, secret sciences and forces\nExist all around us, my soldiers never fold\nBlack Market require readin' the dead street scrolls\n\n(Chorus)\n\n(Outro: Killah Priest)\nThe desert eagles.","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Dead Street Scrolls\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 251615\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Killah Priest)\n  Black Market bitch, it's crazy, the album's here\n  Right there, Black Market, Black Market\n  Walk with us, yeah, the album's here now\n  Happenin' now son, it's happening now, yeah\n\n  (Chorus: Killah Priest, Hell Razah)\n  The dead street scrolls, we, the ones that cry\n  The dead street scrolls, we, the ones that ride\n  The dead street scrolls, we, the ones that cry\n  The dead street scrolls\n\n  (Hell Razah)\n  Hold my hands, let's take a stroll\n  It was written like the dead street scrolls, now the truth unfolds\n  They thought I came here to empty the chrome, they envy my soul\n  Diablo, off of the world, and tempt me with hoes\n  My holy blood drift from a rose, sweet Jerusalem\n  My home sweet home, where the Christ was grown\n  Now it's BK where dice is thrown, here's a light\n  Check your 25 to life, over ice cream cones\n  What you know about this microphone, royalties and the right to own\n  When you're platinum and gold, too many followers and no leaders\n  We in the time, the young souls need us, to be our brother's keeper\n  It's Abel and Kain, way before labels and fame\n  Brothers cryin' from the blood stains left in the rain\n  Teardrops over open caskets, I'm just a genius in a straight jacket\n  Don't have me write it backwards\n\n  (Killah Priest)\n  I reinvented myself, restored what was before\n  The Heavy Mental instrumentals explored\n  Vintage, Black Market prophets, we the heart of the projects\n  See it in a sentence, this is some trap with mob debts\n  Street fillers, from dealers to killers\n  And I went buck, fifties across they face\n  This goes out, to hood niggaz that lost they way\n  Mom's flippin' at the welfare office, thought she was burned\n  We got plans to take the whole hood corporate\n  Dollar bills with my homey's face printed on 'em\n  We neighborhood wino's, the new prophets since Donald Goines\n  Priest, the streets real, feel what I speak\n  This is more than just a hook or a Neptunes beat\n  Pharrell, no disrespect, but my eyes looked in the spec's\n  I ain't a judge, no hidden agenda, yo, it should be 'I am a thug'\n  Is love, I laugh til tears fill up my lids\n  Kick the rockets out the closet, and go out on my wig\n  I spit the realest words, comin' from the hood\n  C-4, cock bells, Market is all good\n  Got the negro's written in the dead street scrolls\n  Pictures of gangstas with guns, in hood street clothes\n  We arm wrestle with the devil, I broke and seen whole\n  When our others box with God, I let my heat go\n  For the people like Huey P., we the lost generation\n  Til the preacher reads, our human plee\n\n  (Chorus)\n\n  (Tragedy Khadafi)\n  I write novels like Claude Brown\n  Manchild in a Promised Land, all the hood children gather round\n  Sun Tzu gave me The Art of War\n  Robert Greene gave me The 48 Laws, The Art of Seduction is nothing\n  Osato told a life story, Alex Haley showed me some Roots\n  My ancestors, those who came before me\n  Elijah taught me how to eat to live, not to live to eat\n  From the pig intestine, deduction of feet\n  King David gave me the book of psalms\n  Huey Newton taught me how to a man, stand up and bear arms\n  Learn the, the ways of the prophet, from Kalilda Brahm\n  Mohammed Alai Salam, from the Qu'ran\n  Iceberg Smith taught me how to move like a don\n  William Cooper showed me the pale horses\n  I studied with John Bay, secret sciences and forces\n  Exist all around us, my soldiers never fold\n  Black Market require readin' the dead street scrolls\n\n  (Chorus)\n\n  (Outro: Killah Priest)\n  The desert eagles.\n"},{"id":23284621,"name":"Paintbrush","trackName":"Paintbrush","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":168.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"[Intro: Killah Priest]\nBlack Market, Priest\n[Chorus 2X: Killah Priest]\nWe paint the pictures without the paintbrush\nMarket hip hop, but think, gangsta\n[Killah Priest]\nPhotography is like a movie film\nAstrology is like I move through realms\nProdigy melodically, I produce a gem\nLike cole, I dig deep into your eternal soul\nI speak a journal, like your fortune told\nYa'll some purple, and light ya weed and blow a circle\nI right the dead street scrolls, it's rare like the Devil's love letters\nLet this essence of this thug, bless ya\nDream of Black Israel, the fetus of a baby Jesus\nSeed of Emmanuel, see a man, in his cell, a breather\nI need one, my weed's done, throw away the roach\nGet close, with the man, with the most witcha\nI draw pictures without paint, with the ink\nWhen I think, the sun and moon, stars, link\nIt's like sixteen bars, get in sink\nI'm like the author Alex Halley\nRidin' the, last note, before Malcolm was buried\nI'm the artist, and what I do with markers\nI color in words, like I'm two years old\nAll I need is a fubius code\n[Tragedy Khadafi]\nI say yes yes ya'll, they try to handcuff the God\nArmani specs with night vision, I see ya'll\nDeep as the mind of Solomon, the metropolitan\nModel women, like Cleopatra, they try to swallow in\nMy pilgrimage, straight to the hood, the children follow 'em\nThug gentlemen, rockin' Timberlands, suade cinnamon\nThe radio don't play our shit, we too militant\nSoul controller, the ayatollah when I roll up\nNine eleven shit, that I spit, the hood blow up\n[Hell Razah]\nAiyo hold up, angels cry, the ghetto for dead souls\nWe left on this globe, tryin' to crawl out the bottomless hole\nLive it out, before the book of life close\nI was told from the first few sentences, written in Genesis\nSeven six, God gave me a gift, I exist\nFrom a family, of kings and queens, and blacksmiths\nWe build like Harold O'Biff, add up the hype\nLiftin' the whiff, and get while we equal infinite\nIt's Black Market militant, Hebrew immigrants\nThey check the pyramid, to see for my finger prints\nFrom New York to Palastine, if you could travel in time\nYou realize, who was God's bloodline\nWhy the dead bury the dead, the blind leadin' the blind\nThe makers of the fathers and nines, fathers and crimes\nThat climb on the mountain of Sear, evil drink from the fountain of fear\nGot men drowin' in tears, countin' on his birthday years\nWe break bread at a table, with thirteen chairs, and long beards","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Paintbrush\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 168000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  [Intro: Killah Priest]\n  Black Market, Priest\n  [Chorus 2X: Killah Priest]\n  We paint the pictures without the paintbrush\n  Market hip hop, but think, gangsta\n  [Killah Priest]\n  Photography is like a movie film\n  Astrology is like I move through realms\n  Prodigy melodically, I produce a gem\n  Like cole, I dig deep into your eternal soul\n  I speak a journal, like your fortune told\n  Ya'll some purple, and light ya weed and blow a circle\n  I right the dead street scrolls, it's rare like the Devil's love letters\n  Let this essence of this thug, bless ya\n  Dream of Black Israel, the fetus of a baby Jesus\n  Seed of Emmanuel, see a man, in his cell, a breather\n  I need one, my weed's done, throw away the roach\n  Get close, with the man, with the most witcha\n  I draw pictures without paint, with the ink\n  When I think, the sun and moon, stars, link\n  It's like sixteen bars, get in sink\n  I'm like the author Alex Halley\n  Ridin' the, last note, before Malcolm was buried\n  I'm the artist, and what I do with markers\n  I color in words, like I'm two years old\n  All I need is a fubius code\n  [Tragedy Khadafi]\n  I say yes yes ya'll, they try to handcuff the God\n  Armani specs with night vision, I see ya'll\n  Deep as the mind of Solomon, the metropolitan\n  Model women, like Cleopatra, they try to swallow in\n  My pilgrimage, straight to the hood, the children follow 'em\n  Thug gentlemen, rockin' Timberlands, suade cinnamon\n  The radio don't play our shit, we too militant\n  Soul controller, the ayatollah when I roll up\n  Nine eleven shit, that I spit, the hood blow up\n  [Hell Razah]\n  Aiyo hold up, angels cry, the ghetto for dead souls\n  We left on this globe, tryin' to crawl out the bottomless hole\n  Live it out, before the book of life close\n  I was told from the first few sentences, written in Genesis\n  Seven six, God gave me a gift, I exist\n  From a family, of kings and queens, and blacksmiths\n  We build like Harold O'Biff, add up the hype\n  Liftin' the whiff, and get while we equal infinite\n  It's Black Market militant, Hebrew immigrants\n  They check the pyramid, to see for my finger prints\n  From New York to Palastine, if you could travel in time\n  You realize, who was God's bloodline\n  Why the dead bury the dead, the blind leadin' the blind\n  The makers of the fathers and nines, fathers and crimes\n  That climb on the mountain of Sear, evil drink from the fountain of fear\n  Got men drowin' in tears, countin' on his birthday years\n  We break bread at a table, with thirteen chairs, and long beards\n"},{"id":23135744,"name":"Mayday!","trackName":"Mayday!","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":217.99505,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Hell Razah)\nFear the evil music, Renaissance Child\nYeah, Black Market, yea, Black Market Militia\nWe gon' talk to the ghettos, Hell Razah\nAll my niggaz in the projects, Will Cooper\nBlood on the walls, yeah, yeah\nAnd it breaths so shit, real deep, yea\nBlack Market Militia, roll with this\nAin't fuckin' wit us, yo, yo\n\n(Hell Razah)\nWelfare, got a respect for my moms\nI found out, George Bush was the same as Saddam\nI'm a digital bomb, downloaded on the CD-ROM\nBefore Muhammed and the Holy Qu'ran, an Egyptian God\nAbraham, saught the science of Brahm\nBreath of life, education of Christ, gave Satan his life\nHe bought souls when they came with a price\nI got the dice, rollin' three sixes, blowin' widow kisses\nKeep wizes, readin' Hebrew scriptures\nEach gun go a longer distance, to get ya\nI develop, so the seller get the bigger picture\nRon O'Neal, superfly without no deal\nI'm Shaquille, when it comes down to lyrical skills\nMaccabee be a seed of Israel\nWhat I can't eat in a mill, I guess, I'mma leave in my will\nSet fire to America's flag, and the President mad\nI raise the states, like the price of gas\n\n(Chorus - 2X):\n(Hell Razah)\nWe try'nna save up for AK's\nHaving helicopter niggaz screamin' \"Mayday!\"\nThis is Black Market Military, don't play\nAin't no comin' at my family, the wrong way, aye\n\n(Hell Razah)\nChild support, disrespectin' my pops, it's fucked up\nWhen ya man breakin' bread with the cops\nThey love talkin' alot, so we send they heads back in a box\nThis for Ray Charles and Red Foxxx, let off a shot\nAnd all the brothers in the prison cells, livin' in hell\nIt's dawn of the dead, we born here, to war with the feds\nLead the snakes to the edge, watch it fall of the ledge\nIt ain't over til we kill 'em, and oil they eggs\nProbably kicked down the White House door\nCuz they wipe out poor, people that's homeless\nWho life like lost, while the rich get richer, the poor get poorer\nSo we run a menage, on both Bush's daughters\nAnd show 'em all the riches that his twin sisters bought us\nThat made a World Trade, when they slept with a slave\nThe same ones that got AIDS, that sickness ya'll made\nThe resurrected Nat Turner's, back from the grave\n\n(Tragedy Khadafi)\nWhen I write, the angels cry, tears fall out of the sky\nHit the earth, take human form and fly\nProphets and messengers, rise out of they graves\nMy enemies'll treat, four legged beasts, back to the cage\nMountains of Caucus, I'm just dealin' with higher forces\nSatellite's take flight when I'm swervin', bulletproof porsches\nThe first dynasty was that of Egyptian's\nBefore commandments, my name was written in golden scriptures\nWhen I spit, it's like bare witness to Allah Chikis Sahatta\nNat Turner burner, soul of a rider\nIt's like me and you subtracted from two, last one left\nRight over left, when cowards die, thousands of death\nLet the revolution start, where's your heart, let ya heat pop\nFeel the lost cause of Afeni, when she lost Pac\nBetty Shabazz, the slugs tore Malcolm's chest and he drop\nAudobon building, might get murdered, what I'm revealing\nCinematic like Michael Moore, Fahrenheit 9/11\nMac-11 flamin', the president's head til it severed\n\n(Outro: Killah Priest)\nMay day, may day, I report from the hood\nBlack Market, I report from the hood, Black Market","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Mayday!\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 217995\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Hell Razah)\n  Fear the evil music, Renaissance Child\n  Yeah, Black Market, yea, Black Market Militia\n  We gon' talk to the ghettos, Hell Razah\n  All my niggaz in the projects, Will Cooper\n  Blood on the walls, yeah, yeah\n  And it breaths so shit, real deep, yea\n  Black Market Militia, roll with this\n  Ain't fuckin' wit us, yo, yo\n\n  (Hell Razah)\n  Welfare, got a respect for my moms\n  I found out, George Bush was the same as Saddam\n  I'm a digital bomb, downloaded on the CD-ROM\n  Before Muhammed and the Holy Qu'ran, an Egyptian God\n  Abraham, saught the science of Brahm\n  Breath of life, education of Christ, gave Satan his life\n  He bought souls when they came with a price\n  I got the dice, rollin' three sixes, blowin' widow kisses\n  Keep wizes, readin' Hebrew scriptures\n  Each gun go a longer distance, to get ya\n  I develop, so the seller get the bigger picture\n  Ron O'Neal, superfly without no deal\n  I'm Shaquille, when it comes down to lyrical skills\n  Maccabee be a seed of Israel\n  What I can't eat in a mill, I guess, I'mma leave in my will\n  Set fire to America's flag, and the President mad\n  I raise the states, like the price of gas\n\n  (Chorus - 2X):\n  (Hell Razah)\n  We try'nna save up for AK's\n  Having helicopter niggaz screamin' \"Mayday!\"\n  This is Black Market Military, don't play\n  Ain't no comin' at my family, the wrong way, aye\n\n  (Hell Razah)\n  Child support, disrespectin' my pops, it's fucked up\n  When ya man breakin' bread with the cops\n  They love talkin' alot, so we send they heads back in a box\n  This for Ray Charles and Red Foxxx, let off a shot\n  And all the brothers in the prison cells, livin' in hell\n  It's dawn of the dead, we born here, to war with the feds\n  Lead the snakes to the edge, watch it fall of the ledge\n  It ain't over til we kill 'em, and oil they eggs\n  Probably kicked down the White House door\n  Cuz they wipe out poor, people that's homeless\n  Who life like lost, while the rich get richer, the poor get poorer\n  So we run a menage, on both Bush's daughters\n  And show 'em all the riches that his twin sisters bought us\n  That made a World Trade, when they slept with a slave\n  The same ones that got AIDS, that sickness ya'll made\n  The resurrected Nat Turner's, back from the grave\n\n  (Tragedy Khadafi)\n  When I write, the angels cry, tears fall out of the sky\n  Hit the earth, take human form and fly\n  Prophets and messengers, rise out of they graves\n  My enemies'll treat, four legged beasts, back to the cage\n  Mountains of Caucus, I'm just dealin' with higher forces\n  Satellite's take flight when I'm swervin', bulletproof porsches\n  The first dynasty was that of Egyptian's\n  Before commandments, my name was written in golden scriptures\n  When I spit, it's like bare witness to Allah Chikis Sahatta\n  Nat Turner burner, soul of a rider\n  It's like me and you subtracted from two, last one left\n  Right over left, when cowards die, thousands of death\n  Let the revolution start, where's your heart, let ya heat pop\n  Feel the lost cause of Afeni, when she lost Pac\n  Betty Shabazz, the slugs tore Malcolm's chest and he drop\n  Audobon building, might get murdered, what I'm revealing\n  Cinematic like Michael Moore, Fahrenheit 9/11\n  Mac-11 flamin', the president's head til it severed\n\n  (Outro: Killah Priest)\n  May day, may day, I report from the hood\n  Black Market, I report from the hood, Black Market\n"},{"id":23135745,"name":"The Struggle","trackName":"The Struggle","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":246.2073,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"(Intro: Killah Priest)\nCheeba cheeba y'all (uh)\nCheeba cheeba y'all, don't stop\nYo... yo, yo\n\n(Chorus 2X: Killah Priest)\nGet that money, money, money, y'all, yeah\nSupport the struggle with your hustle, y'all, yeah\nWe need enough guns, nuff funds, nuff weed\nTill y'all could burn, listen till our sadeed\n\n(William Cooper)\nI show both sides of the coin, we angels with dirty faces\nSome say the love the wicked, more deadly than the hatred\nLife's a bitch, so just face it (face it)\nWhen out of control, that mouth piece is dangerous\nKnow when to put the clamp on, chill out, put ya breaks on\nYou better watch the tone, if you wanna keep your face on\nBe all knowledge, that's pursuit of wisdom\nGive me the word, guy, I waste them dirty, tray eight, lace them\nWith no fingerprint traces, I flatline your airtime\nYou'll be suprised on what's heard on the grapevine\nMy box cutter don't stutter, sirens bring handcuffs\nBelieve me, that's hood life, time's is rough\nYa'll lady luck, like Deebo, stack chains with your necks\nFlex muscle, got a strong arm for corporate checks\nGem Star the Regime, Black Market, the movement\nLike, look and he deliver, we eatin' your food, man\n\n(Chorus 2X)\n\n(Killah Priest)\nIt's the Market, the projects again\nIt's that hard shit, that God is within\nI pick up pens, and put them to lens\nSo y'all can see crystal clear, it's official, we here\nBlack Market, the God sick, watch us pay homage\nPriest, Trag', both gettin' massages by\nDime pieces, the rhyme thesis\nThe mind eases, the nine releases\nPunk police, we police our own hood\nBrownsville, Queensbridge, move around like wolves\nCan't forget, Gates Ave., taking a cab\nUp late in the lab, I'm finished, you take it Trag'\n\n(Tragedy Khadafi)\nYeah, is it the struggle, it's the hustle music on the juggle\nI spit it for black babies, just to show you that I love you\nLittle Assata's, little Malcolm's, little Mandela's\nMake fun of your skin color, that's because they really jealous\nThe full lips and wide noses on the realest soldiers\nIt's way they despise us, and they just really oppose us\nNow I ain't racist, I'm just tryin' tell you what the case is\nFeelin' discrimination, when I walk in different places\nBut I'm the truth, and I'm a king and God told me so\nI translated the greatest, so that the babies know\nAnd to my women, y'all are queens, and we gon' win\nI love y'all hair, I love y'all face, I love y'all brown skin\nI love y'all most, because you stand behind us black men\n\n(Chorus 2X)","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Struggle\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 246207\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  (Intro: Killah Priest)\n  Cheeba cheeba y'all (uh)\n  Cheeba cheeba y'all, don't stop\n  Yo... yo, yo\n\n  (Chorus 2X: Killah Priest)\n  Get that money, money, money, y'all, yeah\n  Support the struggle with your hustle, y'all, yeah\n  We need enough guns, nuff funds, nuff weed\n  Till y'all could burn, listen till our sadeed\n\n  (William Cooper)\n  I show both sides of the coin, we angels with dirty faces\n  Some say the love the wicked, more deadly than the hatred\n  Life's a bitch, so just face it (face it)\n  When out of control, that mouth piece is dangerous\n  Know when to put the clamp on, chill out, put ya breaks on\n  You better watch the tone, if you wanna keep your face on\n  Be all knowledge, that's pursuit of wisdom\n  Give me the word, guy, I waste them dirty, tray eight, lace them\n  With no fingerprint traces, I flatline your airtime\n  You'll be suprised on what's heard on the grapevine\n  My box cutter don't stutter, sirens bring handcuffs\n  Believe me, that's hood life, time's is rough\n  Ya'll lady luck, like Deebo, stack chains with your necks\n  Flex muscle, got a strong arm for corporate checks\n  Gem Star the Regime, Black Market, the movement\n  Like, look and he deliver, we eatin' your food, man\n\n  (Chorus 2X)\n\n  (Killah Priest)\n  It's the Market, the projects again\n  It's that hard shit, that God is within\n  I pick up pens, and put them to lens\n  So y'all can see crystal clear, it's official, we here\n  Black Market, the God sick, watch us pay homage\n  Priest, Trag', both gettin' massages by\n  Dime pieces, the rhyme thesis\n  The mind eases, the nine releases\n  Punk police, we police our own hood\n  Brownsville, Queensbridge, move around like wolves\n  Can't forget, Gates Ave., taking a cab\n  Up late in the lab, I'm finished, you take it Trag'\n\n  (Tragedy Khadafi)\n  Yeah, is it the struggle, it's the hustle music on the juggle\n  I spit it for black babies, just to show you that I love you\n  Little Assata's, little Malcolm's, little Mandela's\n  Make fun of your skin color, that's because they really jealous\n  The full lips and wide noses on the realest soldiers\n  It's way they despise us, and they just really oppose us\n  Now I ain't racist, I'm just tryin' tell you what the case is\n  Feelin' discrimination, when I walk in different places\n  But I'm the truth, and I'm a king and God told me so\n  I translated the greatest, so that the babies know\n  And to my women, y'all are queens, and we gon' win\n  I love y'all hair, I love y'all face, I love y'all brown skin\n  I love y'all most, because you stand behind us black men\n\n  (Chorus 2X)\n"},{"id":26186126,"name":"Thug Nation","trackName":"Thug Nation","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":231.493,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, know what I mean?\nIt's coming down like that, man\nSorry to break up the radio for a minute\nBut it's gotta come down, it's gotta be real\nIt's gotta come from the heart\nAnd I wanna talk to the hood right now\nIf you a thug and you real, motherfucker, speak\n\nI'm like Osama Hussein, hotter than a whole population control\nI'm seeing soldiers fold as I release the scroll\nI spit perpendicular, walking barefoot across peninsulas\nFreeing slaves and prisoners, black market militia\nThis revolution the mission is, free the minds of our listeners\nResurrecting with militants, we ain't begging politicians for nothing\nGovernment funding, coming gunning\nAnd stunning, seeing the D's running\nGod bless us, supreme team, extreme measures\nMacks under mattress, see four in the dressers\nThe D's who wanna test us and Feds wanna arrest us\nFuck professors and they lectures, I'm talking to ancestors\nTrue story, give the glory to God, receive the blessings\nMade in the image of his likeness, my true essence\n\nI blindfold the government with claws and struggle in\nCome from street corners where all day cracks be hustling\nYou can't come in, unless you got a warrant for the crib\nI pay the bills for the crib, man, fuck the police shit\nI got names on bullets in the clip\nThe world ran by the rich, we 'bout to change that shit\nFeel my aura as I walk with a millennium limp\nTalk what I walk, just teaching what I've been taught\nSee sirens show up and outline 'em in chalk\nOGs showed me the ropes and day by day had a coat\nKeep a Ruger in my coat and never ever sniff dope\nOr watch your future go downhill like a ski slope\n\nMy thug nation, let me break it down for you in layman terms\nGet what you can get now before this place burns\nNo, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\nBut believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n\nCall me the black menace, slap niggas like I'm playing tennis\nWhen shit pops off, it don't finish\nThere's smoke in the air, you smelling spinach\nI'm sick in the head, I need a clinic, the infinite\n'Cause I rise without the finer things\nLord of the Rings be them corner kings\nWings of wars, hoes cling on, so bring on your whole platoon\nY'all buffoons with a bunch of tunes need to retreat soon\nBlack Theroux, black Othello\nMy clique be the wild fellows from the wildest ghettos\nYeah, armed with angels, protected by a guiding light\nViolent fights, US and dirt eternal silent nights\nFuck it, George Bush is abominations\nSpoken to us by the prophet Daniel\nHere's some instructions for the hood\nI wrote down, call the project manual\nRule one: get arms and don't share what's spoken up\nInside the circles to outsiders\nI don't know why, I know what I know is right\nBut trust me, dog, God'll provide us\nRule two: find out who's who\nSee, Judas hung around Jesus, you don'\nT want the same thing to happen to you\nRule three: fuck storing food\nAsk for nothing, take what you need\nReality, real warriors bleed\nBelieve me, ghetto Jesus sees this\nRule four: there are no more rules, cash rules\nWhat you take us for, some motherfucking fools?\nI got a celestial gun to clap off demons\nSmash on the brakes, the Devil hit the dashboard screaming\nI'm a manic-depressant, I'm on Paxil and Zoloft\nNow the hood don't gotta say nothing, I just took a load off\nAnd watch me cock the sawed-off\n\nMy thug nation, let me break it down for you in layman terms\nGet what you can get now before this place burns\nNo, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\nBut believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\nLet me break it down for you in layman terms\nGet what you can get now before this place burns\nNo, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\nBut believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n\nYou are now tuned into the sounds of Black Market Radio\nMy thug nation\nMy thug nation\nMy thug nation","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Thug Nation\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 231493\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, know what I mean?\n  It's coming down like that, man\n  Sorry to break up the radio for a minute\n  But it's gotta come down, it's gotta be real\n  It's gotta come from the heart\n  And I wanna talk to the hood right now\n  If you a thug and you real, motherfucker, speak\n\n  I'm like Osama Hussein, hotter than a whole population control\n  I'm seeing soldiers fold as I release the scroll\n  I spit perpendicular, walking barefoot across peninsulas\n  Freeing slaves and prisoners, black market militia\n  This revolution the mission is, free the minds of our listeners\n  Resurrecting with militants, we ain't begging politicians for nothing\n  Government funding, coming gunning\n  And stunning, seeing the D's running\n  God bless us, supreme team, extreme measures\n  Macks under mattress, see four in the dressers\n  The D's who wanna test us and Feds wanna arrest us\n  Fuck professors and they lectures, I'm talking to ancestors\n  True story, give the glory to God, receive the blessings\n  Made in the image of his likeness, my true essence\n\n  I blindfold the government with claws and struggle in\n  Come from street corners where all day cracks be hustling\n  You can't come in, unless you got a warrant for the crib\n  I pay the bills for the crib, man, fuck the police shit\n  I got names on bullets in the clip\n  The world ran by the rich, we 'bout to change that shit\n  Feel my aura as I walk with a millennium limp\n  Talk what I walk, just teaching what I've been taught\n  See sirens show up and outline 'em in chalk\n  OGs showed me the ropes and day by day had a coat\n  Keep a Ruger in my coat and never ever sniff dope\n  Or watch your future go downhill like a ski slope\n\n  My thug nation, let me break it down for you in layman terms\n  Get what you can get now before this place burns\n  No, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\n  But believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n\n  Call me the black menace, slap niggas like I'm playing tennis\n  When shit pops off, it don't finish\n  There's smoke in the air, you smelling spinach\n  I'm sick in the head, I need a clinic, the infinite\n  'Cause I rise without the finer things\n  Lord of the Rings be them corner kings\n  Wings of wars, hoes cling on, so bring on your whole platoon\n  Y'all buffoons with a bunch of tunes need to retreat soon\n  Black Theroux, black Othello\n  My clique be the wild fellows from the wildest ghettos\n  Yeah, armed with angels, protected by a guiding light\n  Violent fights, US and dirt eternal silent nights\n  Fuck it, George Bush is abominations\n  Spoken to us by the prophet Daniel\n  Here's some instructions for the hood\n  I wrote down, call the project manual\n  Rule one: get arms and don't share what's spoken up\n  Inside the circles to outsiders\n  I don't know why, I know what I know is right\n  But trust me, dog, God'll provide us\n  Rule two: find out who's who\n  See, Judas hung around Jesus, you don'\n  T want the same thing to happen to you\n  Rule three: fuck storing food\n  Ask for nothing, take what you need\n  Reality, real warriors bleed\n  Believe me, ghetto Jesus sees this\n  Rule four: there are no more rules, cash rules\n  What you take us for, some motherfucking fools?\n  I got a celestial gun to clap off demons\n  Smash on the brakes, the Devil hit the dashboard screaming\n  I'm a manic-depressant, I'm on Paxil and Zoloft\n  Now the hood don't gotta say nothing, I just took a load off\n  And watch me cock the sawed-off\n\n  My thug nation, let me break it down for you in layman terms\n  Get what you can get now before this place burns\n  No, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\n  But believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n  Let me break it down for you in layman terms\n  Get what you can get now before this place burns\n  No, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\n  But believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n\n  You are now tuned into the sounds of Black Market Radio\n  My thug nation\n  My thug nation\n  My thug nation\n"},{"id":40264515,"name":"Hood Lullabye","trackName":"Hood Lullabye","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"Black Market Militia","duration":158.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, inside the hood, there's fiends, young teens\nWanna look like the magazines, OG's with M-16's\nHear the story, later upstairs, a baby's crying\nCause her mom's upstairs frying\nI'm outside with the lions and the timber wolves\nStalk the streets, guerilla beast, heaters on, fitted on\nIt's dark and gloomy, three pigs on the duty\nIt's not a fable, it's hood lullaby where the brothers die\n\nProject playgrounds, death singing nursery songs\nBuilt a school on a cemetery for your newborn\nFrom the cradle to the casket or in a straight jacket\nGotta be forever son, your flesh burn to ashes\nThe hood's schooling shorty how to re-up on his crack flips\nLittle Red Riding Hood got raped in a black whip\nMother Goose crib got raided for them last bricks\nThem three little pigs again with DEA badges\nThe warrant and the judge having dinner on the mattress\n\nYo, we used to throw M-80's, but now that heat pop\nWhen the D's come, patrol the whole block\nIn due time, their kingdom will fall\nInside project halls with.44's\nHumpty Dumpty played the block hard\nUntil he got shot down in the courtyard\nMary has a coke habit everywhere she go\nBackstage sniffing snow, twenty gram ho\n\nI'm like welfare for siblings, the Similac of rap\nFor all my children, digesting my facts\nRegurgitating all that weak shit, I lift they little arms\nPut 'em over my shoulder, pat they back while singing a song\nBut these are lullabies of hood life\nI tell 'em stories of ratchets blowing, fiends pulling on pipes\nBefore I kiss 'em saying goodnight, put pictures in they dome\nNiggas in jail, never coming home\nThe gun's 'cross his tombstone\nLittle youth never live long enough to become grown\nIt's funny watching their expression change while they sleep\nFrom fear to horror, cause what they see is the streets\nI frighten them, so they may never choose this life\nI'm like a ghetto Morpheus holding red and blue dice\nI show you how far the barrel hole goes\nHope you see the light right before it blows\nHood lullaby","syncedLyrics":"[00:05.08] Yo, inside the hood, there's fiends, young teens\n[00:08.07] Wanna look like the magazines, OG's with M-16's\n[00:11.62] Hear the story, later upstairs, a baby's crying\n[00:14.52] Cause her mom's upstairs frying\n[00:16.57] I'm outside with the lions and the timber wolves\n[00:19.46] Stalk the streets, guerilla beast, heaters on, fitted on\n[00:22.94] It's dark and gloomy, three pigs on the duty\n[00:25.86] It's not a fable, it's hood lullaby where the brothers die\n[00:28.91] Project playgrounds, death singing nursery songs\n[00:31.86] Built a school on a cemetery for your newborn\n[00:34.68] From the cradle to the casket or in a straight jacket\n[00:37.97] Gotta be forever son, your flesh burn to ashes\n[00:40.75] The hood's schooling shorty how to re-up on his crack flips\n[00:43.83] Little Red Riding Hood got raped in a black whip\n[00:46.54] Mother Goose crib got raided for them last bricks\n[00:49.20] Them three little pigs again with DEA badges\n[00:52.28] The warrant and the judge having dinner on the mattress\n[00:54.64] Yo, we used to throw M-80's, but now that heat pop\n[00:58.19] When the D's come, patrol the whole block\n[01:00.93] In due time, their kingdom will fall\n[01:03.98] Inside project halls with.44's\n[01:06.71] Humpty Dumpty played the block hard\n[01:09.46] Until he got shot down in the courtyard\n[01:12.46] Mary has a coke habit everywhere she go\n[01:15.36] Backstage sniffing snow, twenty gram ho\n[01:17.72] I'm like welfare for siblings, the Similac of rap\n[01:21.15] For all my children, digesting my facts\n[01:24.33] Regurgitating all that weak shit, I lift they little arms\n[01:26.72] Put 'em over my shoulder, pat they back while singing a song\n[01:29.84] But these are lullabies of hood life\n[01:32.00] I tell 'em stories of ratchets blowing, fiends pulling on pipes\n[01:35.50] Before I kiss 'em saying goodnight, put pictures in they dome\n[01:38.71] Niggas in jail, never coming home\n[01:41.32] The gun's 'cross his tombstone\n[01:43.63] Little youth never live long enough to become grown\n[01:47.19] It's funny watching their expression change while they sleep\n[01:49.98] From fear to horror, cause what they see is the streets\n[01:52.97] I frighten them, so they may never choose this life\n[01:55.95] I'm like a ghetto Morpheus holding red and blue dice\n[01:58.70] I show you how far the barrel hole goes\n[02:01.03] Hope you see the light right before it blows\n[02:03.14] Hood lullaby\n[02:04.16] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Hood Lullabye\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 157597\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: Yo, inside the hood, there's fiends, young teens\n  start_ms: 5080\n  end_ms: 8070\n- text: Wanna look like the magazines, OG's with M-16's\n  start_ms: 8070\n  end_ms: 11620\n- text: Hear the story, later upstairs, a baby's crying\n  start_ms: 11620\n  end_ms: 14520\n- text: Cause her mom's upstairs frying\n  start_ms: 14520\n  end_ms: 16570\n- text: I'm outside with the lions and the timber wolves\n  start_ms: 16570\n  end_ms: 19460\n- text: Stalk the streets, guerilla beast, heaters on, fitted on\n  start_ms: 19460\n  end_ms: 22940\n- text: It's dark and gloomy, three pigs on the duty\n  start_ms: 22940\n  end_ms: 25860\n- text: It's not a fable, it's hood lullaby where the brothers die\n  start_ms: 25860\n  end_ms: 28910\n- text: Project playgrounds, death singing nursery songs\n  start_ms: 28910\n  end_ms: 31860\n- text: Built a school on a cemetery for your newborn\n  start_ms: 31860\n  end_ms: 34680\n- text: From the cradle to the casket or in a straight jacket\n  start_ms: 34680\n  end_ms: 37970\n- text: Gotta be forever son, your flesh burn to ashes\n  start_ms: 37970\n  end_ms: 40750\n- text: The hood's schooling shorty how to re-up on his crack flips\n  start_ms: 40750\n  end_ms: 43830\n- text: Little Red Riding Hood got raped in a black whip\n  start_ms: 43830\n  end_ms: 46540\n- text: Mother Goose crib got raided for them last bricks\n  start_ms: 46540\n  end_ms: 49200\n- text: Them three little pigs again with DEA badges\n  start_ms: 49200\n  end_ms: 52280\n- text: The warrant and the judge having dinner on the mattress\n  start_ms: 52280\n  end_ms: 54640\n- text: Yo, we used to throw M-80's, but now that heat pop\n  start_ms: 54640\n  end_ms: 58190\n- text: When the D's come, patrol the whole block\n  start_ms: 58190\n  end_ms: 60930\n- text: In due time, their kingdom will fall\n  start_ms: 60930\n  end_ms: 63980\n- text: Inside project halls with.44's\n  start_ms: 63980\n  end_ms: 66710\n- text: Humpty Dumpty played the block hard\n  start_ms: 66710\n  end_ms: 69460\n- text: Until he got shot down in the courtyard\n  start_ms: 69460\n  end_ms: 72460\n- text: Mary has a coke habit everywhere she go\n  start_ms: 72460\n  end_ms: 75360\n- text: Backstage sniffing snow, twenty gram ho\n  start_ms: 75360\n  end_ms: 77720\n- text: I'm like welfare for siblings, the Similac of rap\n  start_ms: 77720\n  end_ms: 81150\n- text: For all my children, digesting my facts\n  start_ms: 81150\n  end_ms: 84330\n- text: Regurgitating all that weak shit, I lift they little arms\n  start_ms: 84330\n  end_ms: 86720\n- text: Put 'em over my shoulder, pat they back while singing a song\n  start_ms: 86720\n  end_ms: 89840\n- text: But these are lullabies of hood life\n  start_ms: 89840\n  end_ms: 92000\n- text: I tell 'em stories of ratchets blowing, fiends pulling on pipes\n  start_ms: 92000\n  end_ms: 95500\n- text: Before I kiss 'em saying goodnight, put pictures in they dome\n  start_ms: 95500\n  end_ms: 98710\n- text: Niggas in jail, never coming home\n  start_ms: 98710\n  end_ms: 101320\n- text: The gun's 'cross his tombstone\n  start_ms: 101320\n  end_ms: 103630\n- text: Little youth never live long enough to become grown\n  start_ms: 103630\n  end_ms: 107190\n- text: It's funny watching their expression change while they sleep\n  start_ms: 107190\n  end_ms: 109980\n- text: From fear to horror, cause what they see is the streets\n  start_ms: 109980\n  end_ms: 112970\n- text: I frighten them, so they may never choose this life\n  start_ms: 112970\n  end_ms: 115950\n- text: I'm like a ghetto Morpheus holding red and blue dice\n  start_ms: 115950\n  end_ms: 118700\n- text: I show you how far the barrel hole goes\n  start_ms: 118700\n  end_ms: 121030\n- text: Hope you see the light right before it blows\n  start_ms: 121030\n  end_ms: 123140\n- text: Hood lullaby\n  start_ms: 123140\n  end_ms: 124160\n- text: ''\n  start_ms: 124160\nplain: |-\n  Yo, inside the hood, there's fiends, young teens\n  Wanna look like the magazines, OG's with M-16's\n  Hear the story, later upstairs, a baby's crying\n  Cause her mom's upstairs frying\n  I'm outside with the lions and the timber wolves\n  Stalk the streets, guerilla beast, heaters on, fitted on\n  It's dark and gloomy, three pigs on the duty\n  It's not a fable, it's hood lullaby where the brothers die\n\n  Project playgrounds, death singing nursery songs\n  Built a school on a cemetery for your newborn\n  From the cradle to the casket or in a straight jacket\n  Gotta be forever son, your flesh burn to ashes\n  The hood's schooling shorty how to re-up on his crack flips\n  Little Red Riding Hood got raped in a black whip\n  Mother Goose crib got raided for them last bricks\n  Them three little pigs again with DEA badges\n  The warrant and the judge having dinner on the mattress\n\n  Yo, we used to throw M-80's, but now that heat pop\n  When the D's come, patrol the whole block\n  In due time, their kingdom will fall\n  Inside project halls with.44's\n  Humpty Dumpty played the block hard\n  Until he got shot down in the courtyard\n  Mary has a coke habit everywhere she go\n  Backstage sniffing snow, twenty gram ho\n\n  I'm like welfare for siblings, the Similac of rap\n  For all my children, digesting my facts\n  Regurgitating all that weak shit, I lift they little arms\n  Put 'em over my shoulder, pat they back while singing a song\n  But these are lullabies of hood life\n  I tell 'em stories of ratchets blowing, fiends pulling on pipes\n  Before I kiss 'em saying goodnight, put pictures in they dome\n  Niggas in jail, never coming home\n  The gun's 'cross his tombstone\n  Little youth never live long enough to become grown\n  It's funny watching their expression change while they sleep\n  From fear to horror, cause what they see is the streets\n  I frighten them, so they may never choose this life\n  I'm like a ghetto Morpheus holding red and blue dice\n  I show you how far the barrel hole goes\n  Hope you see the light right before it blows\n  Hood lullaby\n"},{"id":30839823,"name":"Paintbrush","trackName":"Paintbrush","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"The Black Market Militia","duration":169.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"[Intro: Killah Priest]\nBlack Market, Priest\n[Chorus 2X: Killah Priest]\nWe paint the pictures without the paintbrush\nMarket hip hop, but think, gangsta\n[Killah Priest]\nPhotography is like a movie film\nAstrology is like I move through realms\nProdigy melodically, I produce a gem\nLike cole, I dig deep into your eternal soul\nI speak a journal, like your fortune told\nYa'll some purple, and light ya weed and blow a circle\nI right the dead street scrolls, it's rare like the Devil's love letters\nLet this essence of this thug, bless ya\nDream of Black Israel, the fetus of a baby Jesus\nSeed of Emmanuel, see a man, in his cell, a breather\nI need one, my weed's done, throw away the roach\nGet close, with the man, with the most witcha\nI draw pictures without paint, with the ink\nWhen I think, the sun and moon, stars, link\nIt's like sixteen bars, get in sink\nI'm like the author Alex Halley\nRidin' the, last note, before Malcolm was buried\nI'm the artist, and what I do with markers\nI color in words, like I'm two years old\nAll I need is a fubius code\n[Tragedy Khadafi]\nI say yes yes ya'll, they try to handcuff the God\nArmani specs with night vision, I see ya'll\nDeep as the mind of Solomon, the metropolitan\nModel women, like Cleopatra, they try to swallow in\nMy pilgrimage, straight to the hood, the children follow 'em\nThug gentlemen, rockin' Timberlands, suade cinnamon\nThe radio don't play our shit, we too militant\nSoul controller, the ayatollah when I roll up\nNine eleven shit, that I spit, the hood blow up\n[Hell Razah]\nAiyo hold up, angels cry, the ghetto for dead souls\nWe left on this globe, tryin' to crawl out the bottomless hole\nLive it out, before the book of life close\nI was told from the first few sentences, written in Genesis\nSeven six, God gave me a gift, I exist\nFrom a family, of kings and queens, and blacksmiths\nWe build like Harold O'Biff, add up the hype\nLiftin' the whiff, and get while we equal infinite\nIt's Black Market militant, Hebrew immigrants\nThey check the pyramid, to see for my finger prints\nFrom New York to Palastine, if you could travel in time\nYou realize, who was God's bloodline\nWhy the dead bury the dead, the blind leadin' the blind\nThe makers of the fathers and nines, fathers and crimes\nThat climb on the mountain of Sear, evil drink from the fountain of fear\nGot men drowin' in tears, countin' on his birthday years\nWe break bread at a table, with thirteen chairs, and long beards","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Paintbrush\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: The Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 169000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  [Intro: Killah Priest]\n  Black Market, Priest\n  [Chorus 2X: Killah Priest]\n  We paint the pictures without the paintbrush\n  Market hip hop, but think, gangsta\n  [Killah Priest]\n  Photography is like a movie film\n  Astrology is like I move through realms\n  Prodigy melodically, I produce a gem\n  Like cole, I dig deep into your eternal soul\n  I speak a journal, like your fortune told\n  Ya'll some purple, and light ya weed and blow a circle\n  I right the dead street scrolls, it's rare like the Devil's love letters\n  Let this essence of this thug, bless ya\n  Dream of Black Israel, the fetus of a baby Jesus\n  Seed of Emmanuel, see a man, in his cell, a breather\n  I need one, my weed's done, throw away the roach\n  Get close, with the man, with the most witcha\n  I draw pictures without paint, with the ink\n  When I think, the sun and moon, stars, link\n  It's like sixteen bars, get in sink\n  I'm like the author Alex Halley\n  Ridin' the, last note, before Malcolm was buried\n  I'm the artist, and what I do with markers\n  I color in words, like I'm two years old\n  All I need is a fubius code\n  [Tragedy Khadafi]\n  I say yes yes ya'll, they try to handcuff the God\n  Armani specs with night vision, I see ya'll\n  Deep as the mind of Solomon, the metropolitan\n  Model women, like Cleopatra, they try to swallow in\n  My pilgrimage, straight to the hood, the children follow 'em\n  Thug gentlemen, rockin' Timberlands, suade cinnamon\n  The radio don't play our shit, we too militant\n  Soul controller, the ayatollah when I roll up\n  Nine eleven shit, that I spit, the hood blow up\n  [Hell Razah]\n  Aiyo hold up, angels cry, the ghetto for dead souls\n  We left on this globe, tryin' to crawl out the bottomless hole\n  Live it out, before the book of life close\n  I was told from the first few sentences, written in Genesis\n  Seven six, God gave me a gift, I exist\n  From a family, of kings and queens, and blacksmiths\n  We build like Harold O'Biff, add up the hype\n  Liftin' the whiff, and get while we equal infinite\n  It's Black Market militant, Hebrew immigrants\n  They check the pyramid, to see for my finger prints\n  From New York to Palastine, if you could travel in time\n  You realize, who was God's bloodline\n  Why the dead bury the dead, the blind leadin' the blind\n  The makers of the fathers and nines, fathers and crimes\n  That climb on the mountain of Sear, evil drink from the fountain of fear\n  Got men drowin' in tears, countin' on his birthday years\n  We break bread at a table, with thirteen chairs, and long beards\n"},{"id":30944143,"name":"Gem Star's","trackName":"Gem Star's","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"The Black Market Militia","duration":232.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"[Intro: Killah Priest (Tragedy Khadafi)]\nYeah, pass that (word up, word up\nWord up, haha, that shit feel good right?\nKnowhatimean?) Yeah (Gem Star the Regime, straight up\nBlack Market the revolution) Yeah (Both sides of the coins)\nInside of this (You understand what we talkin' bout?) Uh-huh\n(We giving y'all fair warning)\n[Tragedy Khadafi]\nHot lead bust through iron pipes\nBlood drips from the corner of young thug's mouth, the hood life\nHis torn flesh, and his last bit of breath\nPulses, over death fless, homicide hover like vultures\nMarried the game, now the Earth's dirty and dulgis\nShould of seen him though, niggaz though his heart was the coldest\nLeft two seeds, little son Rod was the oldest\nTwo baby mothers, blowing guns, duckin' under covers\nAnd his motto was, no one in this whole world love us\nFrom the womb to the tomb, presumed the youth's scars\nSoul on ice, tears of a killer, behind bars\nWhen you curse God, streets is a gangsta's graveyard\nMy advice, in the meantime, to you, is play hard\nIt's real, when you deal with the cards you dealt\nIt's not real, when your seeds feel the pain you felt\nBreak the curse, disciple, nigga, pave the way\nIt ain't gangsta, when your seeds go lay in the same grave\nThen die in the same hood, bleed on the same corner\nThe game's over, all of my niggaz, have fair warning\nFair warning... lie's life\n[Killah Priest]\nMy rhymes a guideline, for political thugs and O.G.'s\nWho blows trees in front of authorities, like giving a fuck\nRevolvers will squeeze, regardless to the warrants you read\nTrauma we bleed, before they put our wrists in them cuffs\nI sit in the cut, like I'm sixty two, and next Panther\nNarrator, screen writer for niggaz in handcuffs\nGangstas are freedom fighters doing life in the slammers\nWhere the strangers take advantage, when they tie bananas\nAnd I thank you, what the knife til we collide with them hammers\nPhantoms, they talk before we sell them\nCats yell from they gut, the shells come and their skeleton struck\nHow I survive that four/five, well I tell 'em it's luck\nFellas erupt, at chow time, shots heard from a loud nine\nFitted turbans, we feast and beneath her loud signs\nI don't care, we cripple you blood\nWhen cops come, get rid of them drugs\nFor revolution, grab that mask, pistol and glove\nThis is the love, black oils richer than blood\nI'm sick of the grudge, between vice laws and G.D.'s\nLatin Kings and Mieta's, it's that real shit, that hood lecture\n[William Cooper]\nYour future's outlined in chalk, when you tangle with dope\nIf you know what they risking, they eventually choke\nI put the flames to the smoke, your body leaks til y'all soap\nBlack Market's the vote, now we that uncooked coke\nThat smuggled in on boats, dippin' DEA coats\nPoppin' up like toast, so don't play me too close\nThe FBI and the Mob be like the Bloods and the Crips\nSeems like the root of all evil, leads to government chips\nIt's better to slip with the foot, then slip with the tongue\nFlash both sides of the coin, then the Yin and Yang forms\nKeep it straight, black and white, with no gray in my zone\nStand on top of my word, what I gave is my soul\nSo who do I owe? Dug myself up out of a hole\nAnd while y'all fightin' for gold, I'm fight the NWO\nSince twelve years old, I'se nowhere to get a burner\nBecause the breath of the devil, have you huggin' the corner\n[Chorus 2X: Killah Priest]\nAnd in the hood, we spit gem star's\nGivin' you fair warnings, for life lectures\nPuttin holes in your tecture\nOnly two ways to go, parole or the stretcher\nWe'd rather be on our thrones, holdin' our chesters","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Gem Star's\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: The Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 232000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  [Intro: Killah Priest (Tragedy Khadafi)]\n  Yeah, pass that (word up, word up\n  Word up, haha, that shit feel good right?\n  Knowhatimean?) Yeah (Gem Star the Regime, straight up\n  Black Market the revolution) Yeah (Both sides of the coins)\n  Inside of this (You understand what we talkin' bout?) Uh-huh\n  (We giving y'all fair warning)\n  [Tragedy Khadafi]\n  Hot lead bust through iron pipes\n  Blood drips from the corner of young thug's mouth, the hood life\n  His torn flesh, and his last bit of breath\n  Pulses, over death fless, homicide hover like vultures\n  Married the game, now the Earth's dirty and dulgis\n  Should of seen him though, niggaz though his heart was the coldest\n  Left two seeds, little son Rod was the oldest\n  Two baby mothers, blowing guns, duckin' under covers\n  And his motto was, no one in this whole world love us\n  From the womb to the tomb, presumed the youth's scars\n  Soul on ice, tears of a killer, behind bars\n  When you curse God, streets is a gangsta's graveyard\n  My advice, in the meantime, to you, is play hard\n  It's real, when you deal with the cards you dealt\n  It's not real, when your seeds feel the pain you felt\n  Break the curse, disciple, nigga, pave the way\n  It ain't gangsta, when your seeds go lay in the same grave\n  Then die in the same hood, bleed on the same corner\n  The game's over, all of my niggaz, have fair warning\n  Fair warning... lie's life\n  [Killah Priest]\n  My rhymes a guideline, for political thugs and O.G.'s\n  Who blows trees in front of authorities, like giving a fuck\n  Revolvers will squeeze, regardless to the warrants you read\n  Trauma we bleed, before they put our wrists in them cuffs\n  I sit in the cut, like I'm sixty two, and next Panther\n  Narrator, screen writer for niggaz in handcuffs\n  Gangstas are freedom fighters doing life in the slammers\n  Where the strangers take advantage, when they tie bananas\n  And I thank you, what the knife til we collide with them hammers\n  Phantoms, they talk before we sell them\n  Cats yell from they gut, the shells come and their skeleton struck\n  How I survive that four/five, well I tell 'em it's luck\n  Fellas erupt, at chow time, shots heard from a loud nine\n  Fitted turbans, we feast and beneath her loud signs\n  I don't care, we cripple you blood\n  When cops come, get rid of them drugs\n  For revolution, grab that mask, pistol and glove\n  This is the love, black oils richer than blood\n  I'm sick of the grudge, between vice laws and G.D.'s\n  Latin Kings and Mieta's, it's that real shit, that hood lecture\n  [William Cooper]\n  Your future's outlined in chalk, when you tangle with dope\n  If you know what they risking, they eventually choke\n  I put the flames to the smoke, your body leaks til y'all soap\n  Black Market's the vote, now we that uncooked coke\n  That smuggled in on boats, dippin' DEA coats\n  Poppin' up like toast, so don't play me too close\n  The FBI and the Mob be like the Bloods and the Crips\n  Seems like the root of all evil, leads to government chips\n  It's better to slip with the foot, then slip with the tongue\n  Flash both sides of the coin, then the Yin and Yang forms\n  Keep it straight, black and white, with no gray in my zone\n  Stand on top of my word, what I gave is my soul\n  So who do I owe? Dug myself up out of a hole\n  And while y'all fightin' for gold, I'm fight the NWO\n  Since twelve years old, I'se nowhere to get a burner\n  Because the breath of the devil, have you huggin' the corner\n  [Chorus 2X: Killah Priest]\n  And in the hood, we spit gem star's\n  Givin' you fair warnings, for life lectures\n  Puttin holes in your tecture\n  Only two ways to go, parole or the stretcher\n  We'd rather be on our thrones, holdin' our chesters\n"},{"id":30943505,"name":"Thug Nation","trackName":"Thug Nation","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"The Black Market Militia","duration":232.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, know what I mean?\nIt's coming down like that, man\nSorry to break up the radio for a minute\nBut it's gotta come down, it's gotta be real\nIt's gotta come from the heart\nAnd I wanna talk to the hood right now\nIf you a thug and you real, motherfucker, speak\n\nI'm like Osama Hussein, hotter than a whole population control\nI'm seeing soldiers fold as I release the scroll\nI spit perpendicular, walking barefoot across peninsulas\nFreeing slaves and prisoners, black market militia\nThis revolution the mission is, free the minds of our listeners\nResurrecting with militants, we ain't begging politicians for nothing\nGovernment funding, coming gunning\nAnd stunning, seeing the D's running\nGod bless us, supreme team, extreme measures\nMacks under mattress, see four in the dressers\nThe D's who wanna test us and Feds wanna arrest us\nFuck professors and they lectures, I'm talking to ancestors\nTrue story, give the glory to God, receive the blessings\nMade in the image of his likeness, my true essence\n\nI blindfold the government with claws and struggle in\nCome from street corners where all day cracks be hustling\nYou can't come in, unless you got a warrant for the crib\nI pay the bills for the crib, man, fuck the police shit\nI got names on bullets in the clip\nThe world ran by the rich, we 'bout to change that shit\nFeel my aura as I walk with a millennium limp\nTalk what I walk, just teaching what I've been taught\nSee sirens show up and outline 'em in chalk\nOGs showed me the ropes and day by day had a coat\nKeep a Ruger in my coat and never ever sniff dope\nOr watch your future go downhill like a ski slope\n\nMy thug nation, let me break it down for you in layman terms\nGet what you can get now before this place burns\nNo, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\nBut believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n\nCall me the black menace, slap niggas like I'm playing tennis\nWhen shit pops off, it don't finish\nThere's smoke in the air, you smelling spinach\nI'm sick in the head, I need a clinic, the infinite\n'Cause I rise without the finer things\nLord of the Rings be them corner kings\nWings of wars, hoes cling on, so bring on your whole platoon\nY'all buffoons with a bunch of tunes need to retreat soon\nBlack Theroux, black Othello\nMy clique be the wild fellows from the wildest ghettos\nYeah, armed with angels, protected by a guiding light\nViolent fights, US and dirt eternal silent nights\nFuck it, George Bush is abominations\nSpoken to us by the prophet Daniel\nHere's some instructions for the hood\nI wrote down, call the project manual\nRule one: get arms and don't share what's spoken up\nInside the circles to outsiders\nI don't know why, I know what I know is right\nBut trust me, dog, God'll provide us\nRule two: find out who's who\nSee, Judas hung around Jesus, you don'\nT want the same thing to happen to you\nRule three: fuck storing food\nAsk for nothing, take what you need\nReality, real warriors bleed\nBelieve me, ghetto Jesus sees this\nRule four: there are no more rules, cash rules\nWhat you take us for, some motherfucking fools?\nI got a celestial gun to clap off demons\nSmash on the brakes, the Devil hit the dashboard screaming\nI'm a manic-depressant, I'm on Paxil and Zoloft\nNow the hood don't gotta say nothing, I just took a load off\nAnd watch me cock the sawed-off\n\nMy thug nation, let me break it down for you in layman terms\nGet what you can get now before this place burns\nNo, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\nBut believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\nLet me break it down for you in layman terms\nGet what you can get now before this place burns\nNo, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\nBut believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n\nYou are now tuned into the sounds of Black Market Radio\nMy thug nation\nMy thug nation\nMy thug nation","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Thug Nation\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: The Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 232000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, know what I mean?\n  It's coming down like that, man\n  Sorry to break up the radio for a minute\n  But it's gotta come down, it's gotta be real\n  It's gotta come from the heart\n  And I wanna talk to the hood right now\n  If you a thug and you real, motherfucker, speak\n\n  I'm like Osama Hussein, hotter than a whole population control\n  I'm seeing soldiers fold as I release the scroll\n  I spit perpendicular, walking barefoot across peninsulas\n  Freeing slaves and prisoners, black market militia\n  This revolution the mission is, free the minds of our listeners\n  Resurrecting with militants, we ain't begging politicians for nothing\n  Government funding, coming gunning\n  And stunning, seeing the D's running\n  God bless us, supreme team, extreme measures\n  Macks under mattress, see four in the dressers\n  The D's who wanna test us and Feds wanna arrest us\n  Fuck professors and they lectures, I'm talking to ancestors\n  True story, give the glory to God, receive the blessings\n  Made in the image of his likeness, my true essence\n\n  I blindfold the government with claws and struggle in\n  Come from street corners where all day cracks be hustling\n  You can't come in, unless you got a warrant for the crib\n  I pay the bills for the crib, man, fuck the police shit\n  I got names on bullets in the clip\n  The world ran by the rich, we 'bout to change that shit\n  Feel my aura as I walk with a millennium limp\n  Talk what I walk, just teaching what I've been taught\n  See sirens show up and outline 'em in chalk\n  OGs showed me the ropes and day by day had a coat\n  Keep a Ruger in my coat and never ever sniff dope\n  Or watch your future go downhill like a ski slope\n\n  My thug nation, let me break it down for you in layman terms\n  Get what you can get now before this place burns\n  No, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\n  But believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n\n  Call me the black menace, slap niggas like I'm playing tennis\n  When shit pops off, it don't finish\n  There's smoke in the air, you smelling spinach\n  I'm sick in the head, I need a clinic, the infinite\n  'Cause I rise without the finer things\n  Lord of the Rings be them corner kings\n  Wings of wars, hoes cling on, so bring on your whole platoon\n  Y'all buffoons with a bunch of tunes need to retreat soon\n  Black Theroux, black Othello\n  My clique be the wild fellows from the wildest ghettos\n  Yeah, armed with angels, protected by a guiding light\n  Violent fights, US and dirt eternal silent nights\n  Fuck it, George Bush is abominations\n  Spoken to us by the prophet Daniel\n  Here's some instructions for the hood\n  I wrote down, call the project manual\n  Rule one: get arms and don't share what's spoken up\n  Inside the circles to outsiders\n  I don't know why, I know what I know is right\n  But trust me, dog, God'll provide us\n  Rule two: find out who's who\n  See, Judas hung around Jesus, you don'\n  T want the same thing to happen to you\n  Rule three: fuck storing food\n  Ask for nothing, take what you need\n  Reality, real warriors bleed\n  Believe me, ghetto Jesus sees this\n  Rule four: there are no more rules, cash rules\n  What you take us for, some motherfucking fools?\n  I got a celestial gun to clap off demons\n  Smash on the brakes, the Devil hit the dashboard screaming\n  I'm a manic-depressant, I'm on Paxil and Zoloft\n  Now the hood don't gotta say nothing, I just took a load off\n  And watch me cock the sawed-off\n\n  My thug nation, let me break it down for you in layman terms\n  Get what you can get now before this place burns\n  No, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\n  But believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n  Let me break it down for you in layman terms\n  Get what you can get now before this place burns\n  No, I'm not a minister or we preaching to ya\n  But believe me, dog, I can see the future, get yours\n\n  You are now tuned into the sounds of Black Market Radio\n  My thug nation\n  My thug nation\n  My thug nation\n"},{"id":31137155,"name":"Hood Lullabye","trackName":"Hood Lullabye","artistName":"Black Market Militia","albumName":"The Black Market Militia","duration":158.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, inside the hood, there's fiends, young teens\nWanna look like the magazines, OG's with M-16's\nHear the story, later upstairs, a baby's crying\nCause her mom's upstairs frying\nI'm outside with the lions and the timber wolves\nStalk the streets, guerilla beast, heaters on, fitted on\nIt's dark and gloomy, three pigs on the duty\nIt's not a fable, it's hood lullaby where the brothers die\n\nProject playgrounds, death singing nursery songs\nBuilt a school on a cemetery for your newborn\nFrom the cradle to the casket or in a straight jacket\nGotta be forever son, your flesh burn to ashes\nThe hood's schooling shorty how to re-up on his crack flips\nLittle Red Riding Hood got raped in a black whip\nMother Goose crib got raided for them last bricks\nThem three little pigs again with DEA badges\nThe warrant and the judge having dinner on the mattress\n\nYo, we used to throw M-80's, but now that heat pop\nWhen the D's come, patrol the whole block\nIn due time, their kingdom will fall\nInside project halls with.44's\nHumpty Dumpty played the block hard\nUntil he got shot down in the courtyard\nMary has a coke habit everywhere she go\nBackstage sniffing snow, twenty gram ho\n\nI'm like welfare for siblings, the Similac of rap\nFor all my children, digesting my facts\nRegurgitating all that weak shit, I lift they little arms\nPut 'em over my shoulder, pat they back while singing a song\nBut these are lullabies of hood life\nI tell 'em stories of ratchets blowing, fiends pulling on pipes\nBefore I kiss 'em saying goodnight, put pictures in they dome\nNiggas in jail, never coming home\nThe gun's 'cross his tombstone\nLittle youth never live long enough to become grown\nIt's funny watching their expression change while they sleep\nFrom fear to horror, cause what they see is the streets\nI frighten them, so they may never choose this life\nI'm like a ghetto Morpheus holding red and blue dice\nI show you how far the barrel hole goes\nHope you see the light right before it blows\nHood lullaby","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Hood Lullabye\n  artist: Black Market Militia\n  album: The Black Market Militia\n  duration_ms: 158000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, inside the hood, there's fiends, young teens\n  Wanna look like the magazines, OG's with M-16's\n  Hear the story, later upstairs, a baby's crying\n  Cause her mom's upstairs frying\n  I'm outside with the lions and the timber wolves\n  Stalk the streets, guerilla beast, heaters on, fitted on\n  It's dark and gloomy, three pigs on the duty\n  It's not a fable, it's hood lullaby where the brothers die\n\n  Project playgrounds, death singing nursery songs\n  Built a school on a cemetery for your newborn\n  From the cradle to the casket or in a straight jacket\n  Gotta be forever son, your flesh burn to ashes\n  The hood's schooling shorty how to re-up on his crack flips\n  Little Red Riding Hood got raped in a black whip\n  Mother Goose crib got raided for them last bricks\n  Them three little pigs again with DEA badges\n  The warrant and the judge having dinner on the mattress\n\n  Yo, we used to throw M-80's, but now that heat pop\n  When the D's come, patrol the whole block\n  In due time, their kingdom will fall\n  Inside project halls with.44's\n  Humpty Dumpty played the block hard\n  Until he got shot down in the courtyard\n  Mary has a coke habit everywhere she go\n  Backstage sniffing snow, twenty gram ho\n\n  I'm like welfare for siblings, the Similac of rap\n  For all my children, digesting my facts\n  Regurgitating all that weak shit, I lift they little arms\n  Put 'em over my shoulder, pat they back while singing a song\n  But these are lullabies of hood life\n  I tell 'em stories of ratchets blowing, fiends pulling on pipes\n  Before I kiss 'em saying goodnight, put pictures in they dome\n  Niggas in jail, never coming home\n  The gun's 'cross his tombstone\n  Little youth never live long enough to become grown\n  It's funny watching their expression change while they sleep\n  From fear to horror, cause what they see is the streets\n  I frighten them, so they may never choose this life\n  I'm like a ghetto Morpheus holding red and blue dice\n  I show you how far the barrel hole goes\n  Hope you see the light right before it blows\n  Hood lullaby\n"}]