[{"id":29053315,"name":"Winter Warz (feat. Masta Killa, Reakwon, Cappadonna & U-God)","trackName":"Winter Warz (feat. Masta Killa, Reakwon, Cappadonna & U-God)","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ghostface Killah","duration":311.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"It's on {Where your sparkle at kid?}\n(RZArector)\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alledged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nAcapella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, handheld totem\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black jack to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\nCause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":"[00:33.38] It's on {Where your sparkle at kid?}\n[00:33.58] (RZArector)\n[00:34.72] Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n[00:36.83] Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[00:39.42] Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n[00:41.52] Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n[00:44.39] This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n[00:46.91] X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n[00:49.23] Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n[00:51.57] Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n[00:53.95] It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n[00:56.83] America's Cream Team, redeemed\n[00:58.92] Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n[01:02.38] Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n[01:04.89] Wig blown off the ledge by the alledged\n[01:06.80] Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n[01:08.73] One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n[01:11.26] Acapella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n[01:13.67] And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n[01:16.00] Cords, dope swords, five star general\n[01:18.62] Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n[01:20.88] Through the fully operational, handheld totem\n[01:28.18] A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n[01:30.66] I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n[01:33.43] Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n[01:35.73] Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n[01:38.24] You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n[01:40.67] My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n[01:43.05] Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n[01:45.69] With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n[01:48.58] So sit back and let the king explore\n[01:50.13] Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n[01:53.06] And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n[01:55.40] With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n[01:58.08] Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n[02:00.58] You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n[02:02.81] Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n[02:04.97] A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n[02:07.50] My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n[02:09.95] Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n[02:22.34] Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n[02:24.75] That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n[02:27.47] And as far as the coroners know\n[02:29.37] The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n[02:31.94] Put on by my family brought to the academy\n[02:34.87] Of the Wu and learnt how to\n[02:36.37] Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n[02:39.48] Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n[02:42.03] MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n[02:44.53] Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n[02:46.88] Devils worship this like an icon\n[02:48.96] Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n[02:57.02] You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n[02:58.97] For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n[03:01.53] Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n[03:04.16] Extravaganza, time sits still\n[03:06.40] No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n[03:08.78] As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n[03:11.33] Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n[03:13.76] Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n[03:16.26] CD massacre, murder to cassette\n[03:18.51] I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n[03:21.19] One man ran, tryna get away from it\n[03:23.43] Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n[03:26.03] Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n[03:28.48] Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n[03:31.03] Four course applause, like a black jack to dat\n[03:33.44] You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n[03:35.95] Nowhere to go except next show bro\n[03:38.34] Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n[03:40.70] In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n[03:43.20] All up on the stage cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n[03:45.90] Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n[03:47.97] Every other day my whole dress code switch\n[03:50.57] So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n[03:52.84] All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n[03:55.35] Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n[03:57.85] Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n[04:00.43] I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n[04:02.78] See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n[04:05.19] Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n[04:07.61] The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n[04:10.15] Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n[04:12.51] Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n[04:15.07] And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n[04:17.47] 1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n[04:19.98] And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n[04:22.28] I damage any MC who step in my direction\n[04:24.84] I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n[04:27.11] Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n[04:29.74] My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n[04:32.11] P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n[04:34.63] And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n[04:37.04] Divine can't define my style is so deep\n[04:39.45] Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n[04:41.85] Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n[04:44.32] Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n[04:46.77] I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n[04:49.29] Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n[04:51.77] Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n[04:54.20] Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n[04:56.67] Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n[04:59.06] Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n[05:01.39] Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n[05:03.75] In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n[05:06.33] The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n[05:08.83] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz (feat. Masta Killa, Reakwon, Cappadonna & U-God)\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ghostface Killah\n  duration_ms: 311000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: It's on {Where your sparkle at kid?}\n  start_ms: 33380\n  end_ms: 33580\n- text: (RZArector)\n  start_ms: 33580\n  end_ms: 34720\n- text: Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  start_ms: 34720\n  end_ms: 36830\n- text: Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 36830\n  end_ms: 39420\n- text: Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  start_ms: 39420\n  end_ms: 41520\n- text: Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n  start_ms: 41520\n  end_ms: 44390\n- text: This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  start_ms: 44390\n  end_ms: 46910\n- text: X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  start_ms: 46910\n  end_ms: 49230\n- text: Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  start_ms: 49230\n  end_ms: 51570\n- text: Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  start_ms: 51570\n  end_ms: 53950\n- text: It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  start_ms: 53950\n  end_ms: 56830\n- text: America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  start_ms: 56830\n  end_ms: 58920\n- text: Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  start_ms: 58920\n  end_ms: 62380\n- text: Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  start_ms: 62380\n  end_ms: 64890\n- text: Wig blown off the ledge by the alledged\n  start_ms: 64890\n  end_ms: 66800\n- text: Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  start_ms: 66800\n  end_ms: 68730\n- text: One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  start_ms: 68730\n  end_ms: 71260\n- text: Acapella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  start_ms: 71260\n  end_ms: 73670\n- text: And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  start_ms: 73670\n  end_ms: 76000\n- text: Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  start_ms: 76000\n  end_ms: 78620\n- text: Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  start_ms: 78620\n  end_ms: 80880\n- text: Through the fully operational, handheld totem\n  start_ms: 80880\n  end_ms: 88180\n- text: A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  start_ms: 88180\n  end_ms: 90660\n- text: I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  start_ms: 90660\n  end_ms: 93430\n- text: Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  start_ms: 93430\n  end_ms: 95730\n- text: Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  start_ms: 95730\n  end_ms: 98240\n- text: You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  start_ms: 98240\n  end_ms: 100670\n- text: My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  start_ms: 100670\n  end_ms: 103050\n- text: Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  start_ms: 103050\n  end_ms: 105690\n- text: With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  start_ms: 105690\n  end_ms: 108580\n- text: So sit back and let the king explore\n  start_ms: 108580\n  end_ms: 110130\n- text: Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  start_ms: 110130\n  end_ms: 113060\n- text: And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  start_ms: 113060\n  end_ms: 115400\n- text: With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  start_ms: 115400\n  end_ms: 118080\n- text: Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  start_ms: 118080\n  end_ms: 120580\n- text: You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  start_ms: 120580\n  end_ms: 122810\n- text: Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  start_ms: 122810\n  end_ms: 124970\n- text: A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  start_ms: 124970\n  end_ms: 127500\n- text: My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  start_ms: 127500\n  end_ms: 129950\n- text: Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n  start_ms: 129950\n  end_ms: 142340\n- text: Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  start_ms: 142340\n  end_ms: 144750\n- text: That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  start_ms: 144750\n  end_ms: 147470\n- text: And as far as the coroners know\n  start_ms: 147470\n  end_ms: 149370\n- text: The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  start_ms: 149370\n  end_ms: 151940\n- text: Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  start_ms: 151940\n  end_ms: 154870\n- text: Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  start_ms: 154870\n  end_ms: 156370\n- text: Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  start_ms: 156370\n  end_ms: 159480\n- text: Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  start_ms: 159480\n  end_ms: 162030\n- text: MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  start_ms: 162030\n  end_ms: 164530\n- text: Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  start_ms: 164530\n  end_ms: 166880\n- text: Devils worship this like an icon\n  start_ms: 166880\n  end_ms: 168960\n- text: Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n  start_ms: 168960\n  end_ms: 177020\n- text: You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  start_ms: 177020\n  end_ms: 178970\n- text: For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  start_ms: 178970\n  end_ms: 181530\n- text: Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  start_ms: 181530\n  end_ms: 184160\n- text: Extravaganza, time sits still\n  start_ms: 184160\n  end_ms: 186400\n- text: No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  start_ms: 186400\n  end_ms: 188780\n- text: As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  start_ms: 188780\n  end_ms: 191330\n- text: Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  start_ms: 191330\n  end_ms: 193760\n- text: Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  start_ms: 193760\n  end_ms: 196260\n- text: CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  start_ms: 196260\n  end_ms: 198510\n- text: I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  start_ms: 198510\n  end_ms: 201190\n- text: One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  start_ms: 201190\n  end_ms: 203430\n- text: Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  start_ms: 203430\n  end_ms: 206030\n- text: Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  start_ms: 206030\n  end_ms: 208480\n- text: Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  start_ms: 208480\n  end_ms: 211030\n- text: Four course applause, like a black jack to dat\n  start_ms: 211030\n  end_ms: 213440\n- text: You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  start_ms: 213440\n  end_ms: 215950\n- text: Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  start_ms: 215950\n  end_ms: 218340\n- text: Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  start_ms: 218340\n  end_ms: 220700\n- text: In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  start_ms: 220700\n  end_ms: 223200\n- text: All up on the stage cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  start_ms: 223200\n  end_ms: 225900\n- text: Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  start_ms: 225900\n  end_ms: 227970\n- text: Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  start_ms: 227970\n  end_ms: 230570\n- text: So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  start_ms: 230570\n  end_ms: 232840\n- text: All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  start_ms: 232840\n  end_ms: 235350\n- text: Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  start_ms: 235350\n  end_ms: 237850\n- text: Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  start_ms: 237850\n  end_ms: 240430\n- text: I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  start_ms: 240430\n  end_ms: 242780\n- text: See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  start_ms: 242780\n  end_ms: 245190\n- text: Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  start_ms: 245190\n  end_ms: 247610\n- text: The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  start_ms: 247610\n  end_ms: 250150\n- text: Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  start_ms: 250150\n  end_ms: 252510\n- text: Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  start_ms: 252510\n  end_ms: 255070\n- text: And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  start_ms: 255070\n  end_ms: 257470\n- text: 1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  start_ms: 257470\n  end_ms: 259980\n- text: And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  start_ms: 259980\n  end_ms: 262280\n- text: I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  start_ms: 262280\n  end_ms: 264840\n- text: I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  start_ms: 264840\n  end_ms: 267110\n- text: Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  start_ms: 267110\n  end_ms: 269740\n- text: My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  start_ms: 269740\n  end_ms: 272110\n- text: P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  start_ms: 272110\n  end_ms: 274630\n- text: And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  start_ms: 274630\n  end_ms: 277040\n- text: Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  start_ms: 277040\n  end_ms: 279450\n- text: Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  start_ms: 279450\n  end_ms: 281850\n- text: Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  start_ms: 281850\n  end_ms: 284320\n- text: Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  start_ms: 284320\n  end_ms: 286770\n- text: I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  start_ms: 286770\n  end_ms: 289290\n- text: Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  start_ms: 289290\n  end_ms: 291770\n- text: Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  start_ms: 291770\n  end_ms: 294200\n- text: Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  start_ms: 294200\n  end_ms: 296670\n- text: Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  start_ms: 296670\n  end_ms: 299060\n- text: Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  start_ms: 299060\n  end_ms: 301390\n- text: Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  start_ms: 301390\n  end_ms: 303750\n- text: In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  start_ms: 303750\n  end_ms: 306330\n- text: The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n  start_ms: 306330\n  end_ms: 308830\n- text: ''\n  start_ms: 308830\nplain: |-\n  It's on {Where your sparkle at kid?}\n  (RZArector)\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alledged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  Acapella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, handheld totem\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black jack to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":3689103,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ironman","duration":281.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.62] [Intro: Method Man, (GZA) and U-God\n[00:01.45] It's on\n[00:01.75] (Where your sparkle at, kid?)\n[00:03.68] RZArector!\n[00:04.97] Yo\n[00:05.66] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[00:07.97] Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[00:10.56] Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n[00:12.82] Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n[00:15.41] This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n[00:18.05] Ask why I slam non-diagram poems\n[00:20.34] Raekwon dropped the bomb, \"Hunchback of Notre Dame\"\n[00:22.68] Golden arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n[00:25.05] It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme\n[00:27.49] Supreme team, America's cream team, redeem\n[00:29.92] Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n[00:33.69] Gunpowder to the dome'll split the bones\n[00:36.04] Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n[00:38.08] Full-fledged sledge, RZA edge\n[00:39.75] One dose of my ferocious hand-held trigger clutch\n[00:42.23] Acapella spittin' shells, paralyze, you get touched\n[00:44.87] In critical, mic cords hangin' like umbilical\n[00:47.47] Cords, dope swords, five-star general\n[00:49.75] \"Raw\" be the quote, rap style sore throat\n[00:51.96] Through the fully operational hand-held tote, mmm-hmm\n[00:54.66] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[00:56.75] You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[00:58.96] A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my sounds, get done\n[01:01.72] I hold the title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n[01:04.59] Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n[01:06.93] Germs start to spread through your crew, through lack of effort\n[01:09.35] You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n[01:11.84] My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n[01:14.28] Masked avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n[01:17.03] With a freestyle sharper than the Indian spear\n[01:19.42] So sit back and let the king explore\n[01:21.24] Describe me? \"The kid's nice and he holds swords in his name\"\n[01:24.60] Black, attack the nerve like migraines\n[01:26.58] With more games than beggars on trains, livin' sharp pains\n[01:29.07] Poisonous rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n[01:31.62] You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n[01:33.93] Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n[01:36.22] A duffel bag full of guns sun-dipped in black\n[01:38.61] My culture flies and attacks like a vulture\n[01:41.29] Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n[01:43.61] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[01:45.73] You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[01:48.57] Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n[01:50.75] Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n[01:53.12] Be on the lookout for this mass-murderous suspect\n[01:55.82] That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n[01:58.68] And as far as the coroners know\n[02:00.49] The autopsies show it was a Shaolin blow\n[02:03.20] Put on by my family, brought to the academy\n[02:05.83] Of the Wu and learned how to fuck up your anatomy\n[02:08.86] Steadily, calm and deadly\n[02:10.66] Splatterhead lyrics I lick through your transmit\n[02:13.19] MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n[02:15.52] Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n[02:18.08] Devils worship this like an icon\n[02:19.88] Bear-huggin' mics with the grips of a python\n[02:22.87] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[02:25.03] Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[02:27.63] You heard other raps before, but kept waitin' for the Son of Song\n[02:31.14] I keep dancehalls strong\n[02:32.68] Beats 'nother worthy of my cause, I prolong\n[02:35.26] Extravaganza, time sits still\n[02:37.69] No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n[02:39.88] As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n[02:42.53] Dedicated to rap, nigga, beware the fearsome\n[02:44.96] Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n[02:47.40] CD massacre, murder to cassette\n[02:49.77] I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin' yet\n[02:52.38] One man ran tryin' to get away from it\n[02:54.71] Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n[02:57.27] Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n[02:59.50] Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n[03:02.15] Four cores applause like a black Jack did that\n[03:04.44] You stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n[03:07.05] Nowhere to go except next show, bro\n[03:09.47] Entertainin' motherfuckers can't stop O\n[03:11.67] In battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin'\n[03:14.44] All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattlin'\n[03:16.97] Bitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich\n[03:19.27] Every other day, my whole dress code switch\n[03:21.58] So just in case you wanna Clock Me Like Cherie\n[03:24.23] All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n[03:26.63] Can't get a nigga like Don Dama doesn't\n[03:29.08] Even if I'm smoked out, I can't be scoped out\n[03:31.36] I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n[03:34.02] See my face on the twenty-dollar bill\n[03:36.47] Cash it in and get ten dollars back\n[03:38.72] The Fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n[03:41.36] Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n[03:43.60] Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n[03:45.97] And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n[03:48.83] 1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n[03:50.96] And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n[03:53.46] I damage any MC who step in my direction\n[03:55.81] I'm Staten Island best, son, fuck what you heard\n[03:58.49] Niggas still talkin', that shit is absurd\n[04:00.73] My repertoire is USSR\n[04:03.32] PLO style got thrown out the car\n[04:05.67] And ran over by the Method Man jeep\n[04:08.12] Divine can't define, my style is so deep\n[04:10.43] Like pussy, my low-cut fade stay bushy\n[04:12.84] Like a porcupine, I pop backs like a spine\n[04:15.63] Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n[04:17.89] I know you wanna diss me, but I can read your mind\n[04:20.19] 'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n[04:22.89] Tryin' to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n[04:25.16] Can't change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n[04:27.86] Me and RZA-Ra name-printed in the tablet\n[04:30.03] Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n[04:32.74] Hibernatin' sound and now we out like beers\n[04:34.74] In born power, born physically, power speakin'\n[04:37.52] The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin'\n[04:40.67] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ironman\n  duration_ms: 281000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: '[Intro: Method Man, (GZA) and U-God'\n  start_ms: 620\n  end_ms: 1450\n- text: It's on\n  start_ms: 1450\n  end_ms: 1750\n- text: (Where your sparkle at, kid?)\n  start_ms: 1750\n  end_ms: 3680\n- text: RZArector!\n  start_ms: 3680\n  end_ms: 4970\n- text: Yo\n  start_ms: 4970\n  end_ms: 5660\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 5660\n  end_ms: 7970\n- text: Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 7970\n  end_ms: 10560\n- text: Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n  start_ms: 10560\n  end_ms: 12820\n- text: Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n  start_ms: 12820\n  end_ms: 15410\n- text: This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  start_ms: 15410\n  end_ms: 18050\n- text: Ask why I slam non-diagram poems\n  start_ms: 18050\n  end_ms: 20340\n- text: Raekwon dropped the bomb, \"Hunchback of Notre Dame\"\n  start_ms: 20340\n  end_ms: 22680\n- text: Golden arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  start_ms: 22680\n  end_ms: 25050\n- text: It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme\n  start_ms: 25050\n  end_ms: 27490\n- text: Supreme team, America's cream team, redeem\n  start_ms: 27490\n  end_ms: 29920\n- text: Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  start_ms: 29920\n  end_ms: 33690\n- text: Gunpowder to the dome'll split the bones\n  start_ms: 33690\n  end_ms: 36040\n- text: Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  start_ms: 36040\n  end_ms: 38080\n- text: Full-fledged sledge, RZA edge\n  start_ms: 38080\n  end_ms: 39750\n- text: One dose of my ferocious hand-held trigger clutch\n  start_ms: 39750\n  end_ms: 42230\n- text: Acapella spittin' shells, paralyze, you get touched\n  start_ms: 42230\n  end_ms: 44870\n- text: In critical, mic cords hangin' like umbilical\n  start_ms: 44870\n  end_ms: 47470\n- text: Cords, dope swords, five-star general\n  start_ms: 47470\n  end_ms: 49750\n- text: '\"Raw\" be the quote, rap style sore throat'\n  start_ms: 49750\n  end_ms: 51960\n- text: Through the fully operational hand-held tote, mmm-hmm\n  start_ms: 51960\n  end_ms: 54660\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 54660\n  end_ms: 56750\n- text: You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 56750\n  end_ms: 58960\n- text: A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my sounds, get done\n  start_ms: 58960\n  end_ms: 61720\n- text: I hold the title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  start_ms: 61720\n  end_ms: 64590\n- text: Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  start_ms: 64590\n  end_ms: 66930\n- text: Germs start to spread through your crew, through lack of effort\n  start_ms: 66930\n  end_ms: 69350\n- text: You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  start_ms: 69350\n  end_ms: 71840\n- text: My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  start_ms: 71840\n  end_ms: 74280\n- text: Masked avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  start_ms: 74280\n  end_ms: 77030\n- text: With a freestyle sharper than the Indian spear\n  start_ms: 77030\n  end_ms: 79420\n- text: So sit back and let the king explore\n  start_ms: 79420\n  end_ms: 81240\n- text: Describe me? \"The kid's nice and he holds swords in his name\"\n  start_ms: 81240\n  end_ms: 84600\n- text: Black, attack the nerve like migraines\n  start_ms: 84600\n  end_ms: 86580\n- text: With more games than beggars on trains, livin' sharp pains\n  start_ms: 86580\n  end_ms: 89070\n- text: Poisonous rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  start_ms: 89070\n  end_ms: 91620\n- text: You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  start_ms: 91620\n  end_ms: 93930\n- text: Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  start_ms: 93930\n  end_ms: 96220\n- text: A duffel bag full of guns sun-dipped in black\n  start_ms: 96220\n  end_ms: 98610\n- text: My culture flies and attacks like a vulture\n  start_ms: 98610\n  end_ms: 101290\n- text: Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n  start_ms: 101290\n  end_ms: 103610\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 103610\n  end_ms: 105730\n- text: You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 105730\n  end_ms: 108570\n- text: Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n  start_ms: 108570\n  end_ms: 110750\n- text: Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n  start_ms: 110750\n  end_ms: 113120\n- text: Be on the lookout for this mass-murderous suspect\n  start_ms: 113120\n  end_ms: 115820\n- text: That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  start_ms: 115820\n  end_ms: 118680\n- text: And as far as the coroners know\n  start_ms: 118680\n  end_ms: 120490\n- text: The autopsies show it was a Shaolin blow\n  start_ms: 120490\n  end_ms: 123200\n- text: Put on by my family, brought to the academy\n  start_ms: 123200\n  end_ms: 125830\n- text: Of the Wu and learned how to fuck up your anatomy\n  start_ms: 125830\n  end_ms: 128860\n- text: Steadily, calm and deadly\n  start_ms: 128860\n  end_ms: 130660\n- text: Splatterhead lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  start_ms: 130660\n  end_ms: 133190\n- text: MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  start_ms: 133190\n  end_ms: 135520\n- text: Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  start_ms: 135520\n  end_ms: 138080\n- text: Devils worship this like an icon\n  start_ms: 138080\n  end_ms: 139880\n- text: Bear-huggin' mics with the grips of a python\n  start_ms: 139880\n  end_ms: 142870\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 142870\n  end_ms: 145030\n- text: Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 145030\n  end_ms: 147630\n- text: You heard other raps before, but kept waitin' for the Son of Song\n  start_ms: 147630\n  end_ms: 151140\n- text: I keep dancehalls strong\n  start_ms: 151140\n  end_ms: 152680\n- text: Beats 'nother worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  start_ms: 152680\n  end_ms: 155260\n- text: Extravaganza, time sits still\n  start_ms: 155260\n  end_ms: 157690\n- text: No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  start_ms: 157690\n  end_ms: 159880\n- text: As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  start_ms: 159880\n  end_ms: 162530\n- text: Dedicated to rap, nigga, beware the fearsome\n  start_ms: 162530\n  end_ms: 164960\n- text: Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  start_ms: 164960\n  end_ms: 167400\n- text: CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  start_ms: 167400\n  end_ms: 169770\n- text: I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin' yet\n  start_ms: 169770\n  end_ms: 172380\n- text: One man ran tryin' to get away from it\n  start_ms: 172380\n  end_ms: 174710\n- text: Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  start_ms: 174710\n  end_ms: 177270\n- text: Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  start_ms: 177270\n  end_ms: 179500\n- text: Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  start_ms: 179500\n  end_ms: 182150\n- text: Four cores applause like a black Jack did that\n  start_ms: 182150\n  end_ms: 184440\n- text: You stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  start_ms: 184440\n  end_ms: 187050\n- text: Nowhere to go except next show, bro\n  start_ms: 187050\n  end_ms: 189470\n- text: Entertainin' motherfuckers can't stop O\n  start_ms: 189470\n  end_ms: 191670\n- text: In battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin'\n  start_ms: 191670\n  end_ms: 194440\n- text: All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattlin'\n  start_ms: 194440\n  end_ms: 196970\n- text: Bitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich\n  start_ms: 196970\n  end_ms: 199270\n- text: Every other day, my whole dress code switch\n  start_ms: 199270\n  end_ms: 201580\n- text: So just in case you wanna Clock Me Like Cherie\n  start_ms: 201580\n  end_ms: 204230\n- text: All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  start_ms: 204230\n  end_ms: 206630\n- text: Can't get a nigga like Don Dama doesn't\n  start_ms: 206630\n  end_ms: 209080\n- text: Even if I'm smoked out, I can't be scoped out\n  start_ms: 209080\n  end_ms: 211360\n- text: I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  start_ms: 211360\n  end_ms: 214020\n- text: See my face on the twenty-dollar bill\n  start_ms: 214020\n  end_ms: 216470\n- text: Cash it in and get ten dollars back\n  start_ms: 216470\n  end_ms: 218720\n- text: The Fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  start_ms: 218720\n  end_ms: 221360\n- text: Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  start_ms: 221360\n  end_ms: 223600\n- text: Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  start_ms: 223600\n  end_ms: 225970\n- text: And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n  start_ms: 225970\n  end_ms: 228830\n- text: 1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  start_ms: 228830\n  end_ms: 230960\n- text: And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  start_ms: 230960\n  end_ms: 233460\n- text: I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  start_ms: 233460\n  end_ms: 235810\n- text: I'm Staten Island best, son, fuck what you heard\n  start_ms: 235810\n  end_ms: 238490\n- text: Niggas still talkin', that shit is absurd\n  start_ms: 238490\n  end_ms: 240730\n- text: My repertoire is USSR\n  start_ms: 240730\n  end_ms: 243320\n- text: PLO style got thrown out the car\n  start_ms: 243320\n  end_ms: 245670\n- text: And ran over by the Method Man jeep\n  start_ms: 245670\n  end_ms: 248120\n- text: Divine can't define, my style is so deep\n  start_ms: 248120\n  end_ms: 250430\n- text: Like pussy, my low-cut fade stay bushy\n  start_ms: 250430\n  end_ms: 252840\n- text: Like a porcupine, I pop backs like a spine\n  start_ms: 252840\n  end_ms: 255630\n- text: Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  start_ms: 255630\n  end_ms: 257890\n- text: I know you wanna diss me, but I can read your mind\n  start_ms: 257890\n  end_ms: 260190\n- text: '''Cause you weak in the knees like SWV'\n  start_ms: 260190\n  end_ms: 262890\n- text: Tryin' to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  start_ms: 262890\n  end_ms: 265160\n- text: Can't change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  start_ms: 265160\n  end_ms: 267860\n- text: Me and RZA-Ra name-printed in the tablet\n  start_ms: 267860\n  end_ms: 270030\n- text: Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  start_ms: 270030\n  end_ms: 272740\n- text: Hibernatin' sound and now we out like beers\n  start_ms: 272740\n  end_ms: 274740\n- text: In born power, born physically, power speakin'\n  start_ms: 274740\n  end_ms: 277520\n- text: The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin'\n  start_ms: 277520\n  end_ms: 280670\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":19280553,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ironman","duration":310.573333,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ironman\n  duration_ms: 310573\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":17647335,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Iron Man","duration":280.737958,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Iron Man\n  duration_ms: 280738\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":20399246,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Don't Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)","duration":311.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Don't Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack)\n  duration_ms: 311000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":17090896,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"The RZA Hits","duration":280.032667,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: The RZA Hits\n  duration_ms: 280033\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":16138982,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Wu: The Story of the Wu‐Tang Clan","duration":282.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: 'Wu: The Story of the Wu‐Tang Clan'\n  duration_ms: 282000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":14515316,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ironman (Gold Edition)","duration":280.6666752,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ironman (Gold Edition)\n  duration_ms: 280667\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":22352216,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ironman","duration":245.92,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ironman\n  duration_ms: 245920\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":21564551,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Non-Album","duration":309.8748749,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Non-Album\n  duration_ms: 309875\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":22850400,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ironman (Explicit)","duration":280.706032,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ironman (Explicit)\n  duration_ms: 280706\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":22861383,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Wu: The Story of the Wu‐Tang Clan","duration":311.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: 'Wu: The Story of the Wu‐Tang Clan'\n  duration_ms: 311000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":12336428,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ironman (feat. Raekwon & Cappadonna)","duration":281.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.62] [Intro: Method Man, (GZA) and U-God\n[00:01.45] It's on\n[00:01.75] (Where your sparkle at, kid?)\n[00:03.68] RZArector!\n[00:04.97] Yo\n[00:05.66] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[00:07.97] Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[00:10.56] Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n[00:12.82] Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n[00:15.41] This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n[00:18.05] Ask why I slam non-diagram poems\n[00:20.34] Raekwon dropped the bomb, \"Hunchback of Notre Dame\"\n[00:22.68] Golden arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n[00:25.05] It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme\n[00:27.49] Supreme team, America's cream team, redeem\n[00:29.92] Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n[00:33.69] Gunpowder to the dome'll split the bones\n[00:36.04] Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n[00:38.08] Full-fledged sledge, RZA edge\n[00:39.75] One dose of my ferocious hand-held trigger clutch\n[00:42.23] Acapella spittin' shells, paralyze, you get touched\n[00:44.87] In critical, mic cords hangin' like umbilical\n[00:47.47] Cords, dope swords, five-star general\n[00:49.75] \"Raw\" be the quote, rap style sore throat\n[00:51.96] Through the fully operational hand-held tote, mmm-hmm\n[00:54.66] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[00:56.75] You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[00:58.96] A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my sounds, get done\n[01:01.72] I hold the title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n[01:04.59] Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n[01:06.93] Germs start to spread through your crew, through lack of effort\n[01:09.35] You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n[01:11.84] My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n[01:14.28] Masked avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n[01:17.03] With a freestyle sharper than the Indian spear\n[01:19.42] So sit back and let the king explore\n[01:21.24] Describe me? \"The kid's nice and he holds swords in his name\"\n[01:24.60] Black, attack the nerve like migraines\n[01:26.58] With more games than beggars on trains, livin' sharp pains\n[01:29.07] Poisonous rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n[01:31.62] You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n[01:33.93] Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n[01:36.22] A duffel bag full of guns sun-dipped in black\n[01:38.61] My culture flies and attacks like a vulture\n[01:41.29] Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n[01:43.61] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[01:45.73] You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[01:48.57] Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n[01:50.75] Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n[01:53.12] Be on the lookout for this mass-murderous suspect\n[01:55.82] That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n[01:58.68] And as far as the coroners know\n[02:00.49] The autopsies show it was a Shaolin blow\n[02:03.20] Put on by my family, brought to the academy\n[02:05.83] Of the Wu and learned how to fuck up your anatomy\n[02:08.86] Steadily, calm and deadly\n[02:10.66] Splatterhead lyrics I lick through your transmit\n[02:13.19] MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n[02:15.52] Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n[02:18.08] Devils worship this like an icon\n[02:19.88] Bear-huggin' mics with the grips of a python\n[02:22.87] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[02:25.03] Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[02:27.63] You heard other raps before, but kept waitin' for the Son of Song\n[02:31.14] I keep dancehalls strong\n[02:32.68] Beats 'nother worthy of my cause, I prolong\n[02:35.26] Extravaganza, time sits still\n[02:37.69] No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n[02:39.88] As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n[02:42.53] Dedicated to rap, nigga, beware the fearsome\n[02:44.96] Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n[02:47.40] CD massacre, murder to cassette\n[02:49.77] I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin' yet\n[02:52.38] One man ran tryin' to get away from it\n[02:54.71] Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n[02:57.27] Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n[02:59.50] Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n[03:02.15] Four cores applause like a black Jack did that\n[03:04.44] You stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n[03:07.05] Nowhere to go except next show, bro\n[03:09.47] Entertainin' motherfuckers can't stop O\n[03:11.67] In battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin'\n[03:14.44] All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattlin'\n[03:16.97] Bitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich\n[03:19.27] Every other day, my whole dress code switch\n[03:21.58] So just in case you wanna Clock Me Like Cherie\n[03:24.23] All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n[03:26.63] Can't get a nigga like Don Dama doesn't\n[03:29.08] Even if I'm smoked out, I can't be scoped out\n[03:31.36] I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n[03:34.02] See my face on the twenty-dollar bill\n[03:36.47] Cash it in and get ten dollars back\n[03:38.72] The Fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n[03:41.36] Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n[03:43.60] Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n[03:45.97] And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n[03:48.83] 1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n[03:50.96] And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n[03:53.46] I damage any MC who step in my direction\n[03:55.81] I'm Staten Island best, son, fuck what you heard\n[03:58.49] Niggas still talkin', that shit is absurd\n[04:00.73] My repertoire is USSR\n[04:03.32] PLO style got thrown out the car\n[04:05.67] And ran over by the Method Man jeep\n[04:08.12] Divine can't define, my style is so deep\n[04:10.43] Like pussy, my low-cut fade stay bushy\n[04:12.84] Like a porcupine, I pop backs like a spine\n[04:15.63] Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n[04:17.89] I know you wanna diss me, but I can read your mind\n[04:20.19] 'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n[04:22.89] Tryin' to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n[04:25.16] Can't change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n[04:27.86] Me and RZA-Ra name-printed in the tablet\n[04:30.03] Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n[04:32.74] Hibernatin' sound and now we out like beers\n[04:34.74] In born power, born physically, power speakin'\n[04:37.52] The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin'\n[04:40.67] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ironman (feat. Raekwon & Cappadonna)\n  duration_ms: 281000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: '[Intro: Method Man, (GZA) and U-God'\n  start_ms: 620\n  end_ms: 1450\n- text: It's on\n  start_ms: 1450\n  end_ms: 1750\n- text: (Where your sparkle at, kid?)\n  start_ms: 1750\n  end_ms: 3680\n- text: RZArector!\n  start_ms: 3680\n  end_ms: 4970\n- text: Yo\n  start_ms: 4970\n  end_ms: 5660\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 5660\n  end_ms: 7970\n- text: Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 7970\n  end_ms: 10560\n- text: Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n  start_ms: 10560\n  end_ms: 12820\n- text: Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n  start_ms: 12820\n  end_ms: 15410\n- text: This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  start_ms: 15410\n  end_ms: 18050\n- text: Ask why I slam non-diagram poems\n  start_ms: 18050\n  end_ms: 20340\n- text: Raekwon dropped the bomb, \"Hunchback of Notre Dame\"\n  start_ms: 20340\n  end_ms: 22680\n- text: Golden arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  start_ms: 22680\n  end_ms: 25050\n- text: It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme\n  start_ms: 25050\n  end_ms: 27490\n- text: Supreme team, America's cream team, redeem\n  start_ms: 27490\n  end_ms: 29920\n- text: Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  start_ms: 29920\n  end_ms: 33690\n- text: Gunpowder to the dome'll split the bones\n  start_ms: 33690\n  end_ms: 36040\n- text: Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  start_ms: 36040\n  end_ms: 38080\n- text: Full-fledged sledge, RZA edge\n  start_ms: 38080\n  end_ms: 39750\n- text: One dose of my ferocious hand-held trigger clutch\n  start_ms: 39750\n  end_ms: 42230\n- text: Acapella spittin' shells, paralyze, you get touched\n  start_ms: 42230\n  end_ms: 44870\n- text: In critical, mic cords hangin' like umbilical\n  start_ms: 44870\n  end_ms: 47470\n- text: Cords, dope swords, five-star general\n  start_ms: 47470\n  end_ms: 49750\n- text: '\"Raw\" be the quote, rap style sore throat'\n  start_ms: 49750\n  end_ms: 51960\n- text: Through the fully operational hand-held tote, mmm-hmm\n  start_ms: 51960\n  end_ms: 54660\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 54660\n  end_ms: 56750\n- text: You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 56750\n  end_ms: 58960\n- text: A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my sounds, get done\n  start_ms: 58960\n  end_ms: 61720\n- text: I hold the title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  start_ms: 61720\n  end_ms: 64590\n- text: Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  start_ms: 64590\n  end_ms: 66930\n- text: Germs start to spread through your crew, through lack of effort\n  start_ms: 66930\n  end_ms: 69350\n- text: You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  start_ms: 69350\n  end_ms: 71840\n- text: My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  start_ms: 71840\n  end_ms: 74280\n- text: Masked avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  start_ms: 74280\n  end_ms: 77030\n- text: With a freestyle sharper than the Indian spear\n  start_ms: 77030\n  end_ms: 79420\n- text: So sit back and let the king explore\n  start_ms: 79420\n  end_ms: 81240\n- text: Describe me? \"The kid's nice and he holds swords in his name\"\n  start_ms: 81240\n  end_ms: 84600\n- text: Black, attack the nerve like migraines\n  start_ms: 84600\n  end_ms: 86580\n- text: With more games than beggars on trains, livin' sharp pains\n  start_ms: 86580\n  end_ms: 89070\n- text: Poisonous rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  start_ms: 89070\n  end_ms: 91620\n- text: You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  start_ms: 91620\n  end_ms: 93930\n- text: Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  start_ms: 93930\n  end_ms: 96220\n- text: A duffel bag full of guns sun-dipped in black\n  start_ms: 96220\n  end_ms: 98610\n- text: My culture flies and attacks like a vulture\n  start_ms: 98610\n  end_ms: 101290\n- text: Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n  start_ms: 101290\n  end_ms: 103610\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 103610\n  end_ms: 105730\n- text: You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 105730\n  end_ms: 108570\n- text: Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n  start_ms: 108570\n  end_ms: 110750\n- text: Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n  start_ms: 110750\n  end_ms: 113120\n- text: Be on the lookout for this mass-murderous suspect\n  start_ms: 113120\n  end_ms: 115820\n- text: That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  start_ms: 115820\n  end_ms: 118680\n- text: And as far as the coroners know\n  start_ms: 118680\n  end_ms: 120490\n- text: The autopsies show it was a Shaolin blow\n  start_ms: 120490\n  end_ms: 123200\n- text: Put on by my family, brought to the academy\n  start_ms: 123200\n  end_ms: 125830\n- text: Of the Wu and learned how to fuck up your anatomy\n  start_ms: 125830\n  end_ms: 128860\n- text: Steadily, calm and deadly\n  start_ms: 128860\n  end_ms: 130660\n- text: Splatterhead lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  start_ms: 130660\n  end_ms: 133190\n- text: MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  start_ms: 133190\n  end_ms: 135520\n- text: Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  start_ms: 135520\n  end_ms: 138080\n- text: Devils worship this like an icon\n  start_ms: 138080\n  end_ms: 139880\n- text: Bear-huggin' mics with the grips of a python\n  start_ms: 139880\n  end_ms: 142870\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 142870\n  end_ms: 145030\n- text: Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 145030\n  end_ms: 147630\n- text: You heard other raps before, but kept waitin' for the Son of Song\n  start_ms: 147630\n  end_ms: 151140\n- text: I keep dancehalls strong\n  start_ms: 151140\n  end_ms: 152680\n- text: Beats 'nother worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  start_ms: 152680\n  end_ms: 155260\n- text: Extravaganza, time sits still\n  start_ms: 155260\n  end_ms: 157690\n- text: No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  start_ms: 157690\n  end_ms: 159880\n- text: As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  start_ms: 159880\n  end_ms: 162530\n- text: Dedicated to rap, nigga, beware the fearsome\n  start_ms: 162530\n  end_ms: 164960\n- text: Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  start_ms: 164960\n  end_ms: 167400\n- text: CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  start_ms: 167400\n  end_ms: 169770\n- text: I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin' yet\n  start_ms: 169770\n  end_ms: 172380\n- text: One man ran tryin' to get away from it\n  start_ms: 172380\n  end_ms: 174710\n- text: Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  start_ms: 174710\n  end_ms: 177270\n- text: Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  start_ms: 177270\n  end_ms: 179500\n- text: Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  start_ms: 179500\n  end_ms: 182150\n- text: Four cores applause like a black Jack did that\n  start_ms: 182150\n  end_ms: 184440\n- text: You stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  start_ms: 184440\n  end_ms: 187050\n- text: Nowhere to go except next show, bro\n  start_ms: 187050\n  end_ms: 189470\n- text: Entertainin' motherfuckers can't stop O\n  start_ms: 189470\n  end_ms: 191670\n- text: In battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin'\n  start_ms: 191670\n  end_ms: 194440\n- text: All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattlin'\n  start_ms: 194440\n  end_ms: 196970\n- text: Bitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich\n  start_ms: 196970\n  end_ms: 199270\n- text: Every other day, my whole dress code switch\n  start_ms: 199270\n  end_ms: 201580\n- text: So just in case you wanna Clock Me Like Cherie\n  start_ms: 201580\n  end_ms: 204230\n- text: All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  start_ms: 204230\n  end_ms: 206630\n- text: Can't get a nigga like Don Dama doesn't\n  start_ms: 206630\n  end_ms: 209080\n- text: Even if I'm smoked out, I can't be scoped out\n  start_ms: 209080\n  end_ms: 211360\n- text: I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  start_ms: 211360\n  end_ms: 214020\n- text: See my face on the twenty-dollar bill\n  start_ms: 214020\n  end_ms: 216470\n- text: Cash it in and get ten dollars back\n  start_ms: 216470\n  end_ms: 218720\n- text: The Fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  start_ms: 218720\n  end_ms: 221360\n- text: Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  start_ms: 221360\n  end_ms: 223600\n- text: Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  start_ms: 223600\n  end_ms: 225970\n- text: And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n  start_ms: 225970\n  end_ms: 228830\n- text: 1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  start_ms: 228830\n  end_ms: 230960\n- text: And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  start_ms: 230960\n  end_ms: 233460\n- text: I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  start_ms: 233460\n  end_ms: 235810\n- text: I'm Staten Island best, son, fuck what you heard\n  start_ms: 235810\n  end_ms: 238490\n- text: Niggas still talkin', that shit is absurd\n  start_ms: 238490\n  end_ms: 240730\n- text: My repertoire is USSR\n  start_ms: 240730\n  end_ms: 243320\n- text: PLO style got thrown out the car\n  start_ms: 243320\n  end_ms: 245670\n- text: And ran over by the Method Man jeep\n  start_ms: 245670\n  end_ms: 248120\n- text: Divine can't define, my style is so deep\n  start_ms: 248120\n  end_ms: 250430\n- text: Like pussy, my low-cut fade stay bushy\n  start_ms: 250430\n  end_ms: 252840\n- text: Like a porcupine, I pop backs like a spine\n  start_ms: 252840\n  end_ms: 255630\n- text: Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  start_ms: 255630\n  end_ms: 257890\n- text: I know you wanna diss me, but I can read your mind\n  start_ms: 257890\n  end_ms: 260190\n- text: '''Cause you weak in the knees like SWV'\n  start_ms: 260190\n  end_ms: 262890\n- text: Tryin' to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  start_ms: 262890\n  end_ms: 265160\n- text: Can't change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  start_ms: 265160\n  end_ms: 267860\n- text: Me and RZA-Ra name-printed in the tablet\n  start_ms: 267860\n  end_ms: 270030\n- text: Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  start_ms: 270030\n  end_ms: 272740\n- text: Hibernatin' sound and now we out like beers\n  start_ms: 272740\n  end_ms: 274740\n- text: In born power, born physically, power speakin'\n  start_ms: 274740\n  end_ms: 277520\n- text: The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin'\n  start_ms: 277520\n  end_ms: 280670\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":33579814,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Wu: The Story Of The Wu-Tang Clan","duration":311.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: 'Wu: The Story Of The Wu-Tang Clan'\n  duration_ms: 311000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":35831555,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Don't Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood","duration":310.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Don't Be A Menace To South Central While Drinking Your Juice In The Hood\n  duration_ms: 310000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":29264576,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Wonderful World of Wallabee's","duration":311.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Wonderful World of Wallabee's\n  duration_ms: 311000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":28192628,"name":"Winter Warz","trackName":"Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Wu: The Story Of The Wu-Tang Clan","duration":282.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: 'Wu: The Story Of The Wu-Tang Clan'\n  duration_ms: 282000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":18572959,"name":"07 - Winter Warz","trackName":"07 - Winter Warz","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ironman","duration":279.971375,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nX Y slam Nine Diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\nAmerica's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome and split the bone\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\nA capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\nAnd critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\nI hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learnt how to\nFuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes the shit is raw coming at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before but kept waiting\nFor the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, tryna get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire, is U.S.S.R\nP.L.O. style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\nTryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\nMe and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound and now we out like bears\nIn Born Power, born physically, power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: 07 - Winter Warz\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ironman\n  duration_ms: 279971\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  X Y slam Nine Diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme, supreme team\n  America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome and split the bone\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc' handheld trigger cuts\n  A capella spitting shell paralyse if you get touched\n  And critical mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote, mhm\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done\n  I hold a title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more gains than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks you like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learnt how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes the shit is raw coming at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before but kept waiting\n  For the Son of Song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap nigga, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, tryna get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire, is U.S.S.R\n  P.L.O. style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n  Tryna get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  Me and RZA rhyme name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound and now we out like bears\n  In Born Power, born physically, power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":30210056,"name":"winter warz feat. cappadonna..","trackName":"winter warz feat. cappadonna..","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"Ironman","duration":281.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"* originally appeared on the Don't Be a Menace soundtrack\n\nIntro: Method Man\n\nIt's on...\n(where your sparkle at kid)\nRyzarector\n\nBreak: Raekwon the Chef\n\nYes the shit is raw, comin at your door\nStart to scream out loud, Wu-Tang's back for more\nYes the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\nVerse One: U-God\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nAsk why I slam, non-diagram pole\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback, Notre Dame\nGolden Arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mean stream be the theme\nSupreme team, America's Cream Team, redeemed\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\nGun POW to the dome\nAnd split the bone, wig blown off the ledge\nBy the alleged, full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\nOne dose of my feroc(ious) hand held trigger cuts\nAcapella spitting shell paralysed when you get touched\nAnd critical, mic cords, hanging like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five star general\nRaw be the quote rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational, hand held tote\n\nBreak: (first two lines)\n\nVerse Two: Ghostface Killer\n\nMore than thousand times one, snatch up, my styles get done\nI hold a title, enhanced how my belt was won, check it\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew, drew like an epic\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\nMasked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\nAnd his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\nWith more games than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\nPoisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of, hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\nMy culture, glides and attacks like a vulture\nGhostface and Madison Square is on your poster\n\nBreak\n\nVerse Three: Masta Killa\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\nThat throws more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsy shows, it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learned how to\nFuck up your anatomy, steadily, calm and deadly\nSpatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMC's submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nThey're hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\nBreak\n\nVerse Four: Cappadonna (Cappachino)\n\nYou heard of the rasp before but kept waiting\nfor the sun of song, I keep dancehalls strong\nBeats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\nextravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\nDedicated to rap niggaz, beware of the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\nOne man ran, trying to get away from it\nPut your bifocal on, watch me I cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dreams\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour course applause, like a black dat to dat\nYou're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show bro\nEntertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battling, you don't want me to start tattling\nAll upon the stage because y'all snakes keep rattling\nBitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\nEvery other day my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you want to clock me like Sherry\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\nCan't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\nEven if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\nSee my face on the twenty dollar bill\nCash it in, and get ten dollars back\nThe fat LP with Cappaccino on the wax\nPass it in your think, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LP's back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you can long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island's best son fuck what you heard\nNiggaz still talking that shit is absurd\nMy repertoire is U.S.S.R.\nP.L.O. style got blown out the car\nAnd run over, by the Method Man Jeep\nDivine can't define my style is so deep\nlike pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\nCut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you \"weak in the knees\" like SWV\nTrying to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nKid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbot\nMe and RZA riding name printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernate the sound, and now we out like beers\nand blunt power, born physically power speaking\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teaching","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: winter warz feat. cappadonna..\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: Ironman\n  duration_ms: 281000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  * originally appeared on the Don't Be a Menace soundtrack\n\n  Intro: Method Man\n\n  It's on...\n  (where your sparkle at kid)\n  Ryzarector\n\n  Break: Raekwon the Chef\n\n  Yes the shit is raw, comin at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, Wu-Tang's back for more\n  Yes the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)\n\n  Verse One: U-God\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  Ask why I slam, non-diagram pole\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback, Notre Dame\n  Golden Arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mean stream be the theme\n  Supreme team, America's Cream Team, redeemed\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  Gun POW to the dome\n  And split the bone, wig blown off the ledge\n  By the alleged, full-fledged, sledge RZA edge\n  One dose of my feroc(ious) hand held trigger cuts\n  Acapella spitting shell paralysed when you get touched\n  And critical, mic cords, hanging like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five star general\n  Raw be the quote rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational, hand held tote\n\n  Break: (first two lines)\n\n  Verse Two: Ghostface Killer\n\n  More than thousand times one, snatch up, my styles get done\n  I hold a title, enhanced how my belt was won, check it\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew, drew like an epic\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords\n  And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines\n  With more games than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains\n  Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of, hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns son, dipped in black\n  My culture, glides and attacks like a vulture\n  Ghostface and Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Break\n\n  Verse Three: Masta Killa\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect\n  That throws more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsy shows, it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learned how to\n  Fuck up your anatomy, steadily, calm and deadly\n  Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MC's submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  They're hugging mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Break\n\n  Verse Four: Cappadonna (Cappachino)\n\n  You heard of the rasp before but kept waiting\n  for the sun of song, I keep dancehalls strong\n  Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  Dedicated to rap niggaz, beware of the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothing yet\n  One man ran, trying to get away from it\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me I cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dreams\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four course applause, like a black dat to dat\n  You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show bro\n  Entertaining motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battling, you don't want me to start tattling\n  All upon the stage because y'all snakes keep rattling\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothing on the rich\n  Every other day my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you want to clock me like Sherry\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen\n  Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  See my face on the twenty dollar bill\n  Cash it in, and get ten dollars back\n  The fat LP with Cappaccino on the wax\n  Pass it in your think, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LP's back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you can long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island's best son fuck what you heard\n  Niggaz still talking that shit is absurd\n  My repertoire is U.S.S.R.\n  P.L.O. style got blown out the car\n  And run over, by the Method Man Jeep\n  Divine can't define my style is so deep\n  like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine\n  Cut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you \"weak in the knees\" like SWV\n  Trying to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbot\n  Me and RZA riding name printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernate the sound, and now we out like beers\n  and blunt power, born physically power speaking\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teaching\n"},{"id":33057980,"name":"Winter Warz (Ft. Cappadonna","trackName":"Winter Warz (Ft. Cappadonna","artistName":"Ghostface Killah","albumName":"IRONMAN","duration":281.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"[Intro: Method Man, (GZA) and U-God\nIt's on\n(Where your sparkle at, kid?)\nRZArector!\nYo\n\nYes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes, the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n\nThis rhyme you digest through the RZA console\nAsk why I slam non-diagram poems\nRaekwon dropped the bomb, \"Hunchback of Notre Dame\"\nGolden arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\nIt blows extreme, mainstream be the theme\nSupreme team, America's cream team, redeem\nVidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n\nGunpowder to the dome'll split the bones\nWig blown off the ledge by the alleged\nFull-fledged sledge, RZA edge\nOne dose of my ferocious hand-held trigger clutch\nAcapella spittin' shells, paralyze, you get touched\n\nIn critical, mic cords hangin' like umbilical\nCords, dope swords, five-star general\n\"Raw\" be the quote, rap style sore throat\nThrough the fully operational hand-held tote, mmm-hmm\n\nYes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\nYou start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nA hundred thousand times one, snatch up my sounds, get done\nI hold the title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n\nSlick majestic, broke mics are left infected\nGerms start to spread through your crew, through lack of effort\nYou asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\nMy technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n\nMasked avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\nWith a freestyle sharper than the Indian spear\nSo sit back and let the king explore\nDescribe me? \"The kid's nice and he holds swords in his name\"\nBlack, attack the nerve like migraines\nWith more games than beggars on trains, livin' sharp pains\nPoisonous rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n\nYou get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\nSide effects of hot raps and hot tracks\nA duffel bag full of guns sun-dipped in black\nMy culture flies and attacks like a vulture\nGhostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\nYes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\nYou start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\nYes, the hour's four, I told you before\nPrepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n\nBe on the lookout for this mass-murderous suspect\nThat fills more body bags than apartments in projects\nAnd as far as the coroners know\nThe autopsies show it was a Shaolin blow\nPut on by my family, brought to the academy\nOf the Wu and learned how to fuck up your anatomy\nSteadily, calm and deadly\n\nSplatterhead lyrics I lick through your transmit\nMCs submit to the will as I kill your\nJuvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\nDevils worship this like an icon\nBear-huggin' mics with the grips of a python\n\nYes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\nStart to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\nYou heard other raps before, but kept waitin' for the Son of Song\nI keep dancehalls strong\n\nBeats 'nother worthy of my cause, I prolong\nExtravaganza, time sits still\nNo propaganda, be wary of the skill\nAs I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n\nDedicated to rap, nigga, beware the fearsome\nLebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\nCD massacre, murder to cassette\nI blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin' yet\nOne man ran tryin' to get away from it\n\nPut your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\nInto your chamber like Freddy enter dream\nDiscombumberate your technique and your scheme\nFour cores applause like a black Jack did that\nYou stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\nNowhere to go except next show, bro\n\nEntertainin' motherfuckers can't stop O\nIn battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin'\nAll up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattlin'\nBitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich\nEvery other day, my whole dress code switch\nSo just in case you wanna Clock Me Like Cherie\nAll y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n\nCan't get a nigga like Don Dama doesn't\nEven if I'm smoked out, I can't be scoped out\nI'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n\nSee my face on the twenty-dollar bill\n\nCash it in and get ten dollars back\nThe Fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n\nPass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\nPut all the other LPs back on the shelf\nAnd smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n\n1-6-0-4-9-3-11\nAnd you could get long dick hip-hop affection\nI damage any MC who step in my direction\nI'm Staten Island best, son, fuck what you heard\nNiggas still talkin', that shit is absurd\n\nMy repertoire is USSR\nPLO style got thrown out the car\nAnd ran over by the Method Man jeep\nDivine can't define, my style is so deep\nLike pussy, my low-cut fade stay bushy\nLike a porcupine, I pop backs like a spine\nGut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\nI know you wanna diss me, but I can read your mind\n'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n\nTryin' to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\nCan't change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n\nMe and RZA-Ra name-printed in the tablet\nUnder vets, we paid our debts for mad years\nHibernatin' sound and now we out like beers\nIn born power, born physically, power speakin'\nThe truth in the song be the pro-black teachin'","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.63] [Intro: Method Man, (GZA) and U-God\n[00:01.48] It's on\n[00:01.75] (Where your sparkle at, kid?)\n[00:03.64] RZArector!\n[00:04.90] Yo\n[00:05.69] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[00:07.92] Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[00:10.58] Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n[00:12.85] Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n[00:15.42] This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n[00:18.02] Ask why I slam non-diagram poems\n[00:20.32] Raekwon dropped the bomb, \"Hunchback of Notre Dame\"\n[00:22.69] Golden arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n[00:25.07] It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme\n[00:27.45] Supreme team, America's cream team, redeem\n[00:29.94] Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n[00:33.62] Gunpowder to the dome'll split the bones\n[00:36.05] Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n[00:38.00] Full-fledged sledge, RZA edge\n[00:39.78] One dose of my ferocious hand-held trigger clutch\n[00:42.26] Acapella spittin' shells, paralyze, you get touched\n[00:44.88] In critical, mic cords hangin' like umbilical\n[00:47.44] Cords, dope swords, five-star general\n[00:49.78] \"Raw\" be the quote, rap style sore throat\n[00:51.92] Through the fully operational hand-held tote, mmm-hmm\n[00:54.65] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[00:56.76] You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[00:58.91] A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my sounds, get done\n[01:01.75] I hold the title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n[01:04.55] Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n[01:06.93] Germs start to spread through your crew, through lack of effort\n[01:09.39] You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n[01:11.84] My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n[01:14.29] Masked avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n[01:17.02] With a freestyle sharper than the Indian spear\n[01:19.44] So sit back and let the king explore\n[01:21.29] Describe me? \"The kid's nice and he holds swords in his name\"\n[01:24.65] Black, attack the nerve like migraines\n[01:26.53] With more games than beggars on trains, livin' sharp pains\n[01:29.03] Poisonous rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n[01:31.68] You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n[01:33.95] Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n[01:36.25] A duffel bag full of guns sun-dipped in black\n[01:38.67] My culture flies and attacks like a vulture\n[01:41.22] Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n[01:43.61] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[01:45.71] You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[01:48.54] Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n[01:50.76] Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n[01:53.12] Be on the lookout for this mass-murderous suspect\n[01:55.82] That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n[01:58.63] And as far as the coroners know\n[02:00.41] The autopsies show it was a Shaolin blow\n[02:03.27] Put on by my family, brought to the academy\n[02:05.82] Of the Wu and learned how to fuck up your anatomy\n[02:08.73] Steadily, calm and deadly\n[02:10.63] Splatterhead lyrics I lick through your transmit\n[02:13.18] MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n[02:15.55] Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n[02:18.09] Devils worship this like an icon\n[02:19.84] Bear-huggin' mics with the grips of a python\n[02:22.89] Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n[02:25.07] Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n[02:27.68] You heard other raps before, but kept waitin' for the Son of Song\n[02:31.18] I keep dancehalls strong\n[02:32.70] Beats 'nother worthy of my cause, I prolong\n[02:35.23] Extravaganza, time sits still\n[02:37.68] No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n[02:39.86] As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n[02:42.56] Dedicated to rap, nigga, beware the fearsome\n[02:44.91] Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n[02:47.44] CD massacre, murder to cassette\n[02:49.72] I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin' yet\n[02:52.37] One man ran tryin' to get away from it\n[02:54.71] Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n[02:57.25] Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n[02:59.58] Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n[03:02.13] Four cores applause like a black Jack did that\n[03:04.49] You stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n[03:07.05] Nowhere to go except next show, bro\n[03:09.46] Entertainin' motherfuckers can't stop O\n[03:11.61] In battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin'\n[03:14.48] All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattlin'\n[03:16.97] Bitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich\n[03:19.29] Every other day, my whole dress code switch\n[03:21.51] So just in case you wanna Clock Me Like Cherie\n[03:24.20] All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n[03:26.62] Can't get a nigga like Don Dama doesn't\n[03:29.09] Even if I'm smoked out, I can't be scoped out\n[03:31.36] I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n[03:34.02] See my face on the twenty-dollar bill\n[03:36.43] Cash it in and get ten dollars back\n[03:38.75] The Fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n[03:41.30] Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n[03:43.61] Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n[03:45.94] And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n[03:48.80] 1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n[03:50.94] And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n[03:53.42] I damage any MC who step in my direction\n[03:55.87] I'm Staten Island best, son, fuck what you heard\n[03:58.41] Niggas still talkin', that shit is absurd\n[04:00.73] My repertoire is USSR\n[04:03.32] PLO style got thrown out the car\n[04:05.63] And ran over by the Method Man jeep\n[04:08.11] Divine can't define, my style is so deep\n[04:10.44] Like pussy, my low-cut fade stay bushy\n[04:12.88] Like a porcupine, I pop backs like a spine\n[04:15.60] Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n[04:17.89] I know you wanna diss me, but I can read your mind\n[04:20.18] 'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n[04:22.85] Tryin' to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n[04:25.14] Can't change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n[04:27.89] Me and RZA-Ra name-printed in the tablet\n[04:30.04] Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n[04:32.72] Hibernatin' sound and now we out like beers\n[04:34.79] In born power, born physically, power speakin'\n[04:37.55] The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin'\n[04:40.52] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Winter Warz (Ft. Cappadonna\n  artist: Ghostface Killah\n  album: IRONMAN\n  duration_ms: 281000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: '[Intro: Method Man, (GZA) and U-God'\n  start_ms: 630\n  end_ms: 1480\n- text: It's on\n  start_ms: 1480\n  end_ms: 1750\n- text: (Where your sparkle at, kid?)\n  start_ms: 1750\n  end_ms: 3640\n- text: RZArector!\n  start_ms: 3640\n  end_ms: 4900\n- text: Yo\n  start_ms: 4900\n  end_ms: 5690\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 5690\n  end_ms: 7920\n- text: Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 7920\n  end_ms: 10580\n- text: Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n  start_ms: 10580\n  end_ms: 12850\n- text: Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n  start_ms: 12850\n  end_ms: 15420\n- text: This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  start_ms: 15420\n  end_ms: 18020\n- text: Ask why I slam non-diagram poems\n  start_ms: 18020\n  end_ms: 20320\n- text: Raekwon dropped the bomb, \"Hunchback of Notre Dame\"\n  start_ms: 20320\n  end_ms: 22690\n- text: Golden arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  start_ms: 22690\n  end_ms: 25070\n- text: It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme\n  start_ms: 25070\n  end_ms: 27450\n- text: Supreme team, America's cream team, redeem\n  start_ms: 27450\n  end_ms: 29940\n- text: Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n  start_ms: 29940\n  end_ms: 33620\n- text: Gunpowder to the dome'll split the bones\n  start_ms: 33620\n  end_ms: 36050\n- text: Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  start_ms: 36050\n  end_ms: 38000\n- text: Full-fledged sledge, RZA edge\n  start_ms: 38000\n  end_ms: 39780\n- text: One dose of my ferocious hand-held trigger clutch\n  start_ms: 39780\n  end_ms: 42260\n- text: Acapella spittin' shells, paralyze, you get touched\n  start_ms: 42260\n  end_ms: 44880\n- text: In critical, mic cords hangin' like umbilical\n  start_ms: 44880\n  end_ms: 47440\n- text: Cords, dope swords, five-star general\n  start_ms: 47440\n  end_ms: 49780\n- text: '\"Raw\" be the quote, rap style sore throat'\n  start_ms: 49780\n  end_ms: 51920\n- text: Through the fully operational hand-held tote, mmm-hmm\n  start_ms: 51920\n  end_ms: 54650\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 54650\n  end_ms: 56760\n- text: You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 56760\n  end_ms: 58910\n- text: A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my sounds, get done\n  start_ms: 58910\n  end_ms: 61750\n- text: I hold the title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n  start_ms: 61750\n  end_ms: 64550\n- text: Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  start_ms: 64550\n  end_ms: 66930\n- text: Germs start to spread through your crew, through lack of effort\n  start_ms: 66930\n  end_ms: 69390\n- text: You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  start_ms: 69390\n  end_ms: 71840\n- text: My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n  start_ms: 71840\n  end_ms: 74290\n- text: Masked avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  start_ms: 74290\n  end_ms: 77020\n- text: With a freestyle sharper than the Indian spear\n  start_ms: 77020\n  end_ms: 79440\n- text: So sit back and let the king explore\n  start_ms: 79440\n  end_ms: 81290\n- text: Describe me? \"The kid's nice and he holds swords in his name\"\n  start_ms: 81290\n  end_ms: 84650\n- text: Black, attack the nerve like migraines\n  start_ms: 84650\n  end_ms: 86530\n- text: With more games than beggars on trains, livin' sharp pains\n  start_ms: 86530\n  end_ms: 89030\n- text: Poisonous rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n  start_ms: 89030\n  end_ms: 91680\n- text: You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  start_ms: 91680\n  end_ms: 93950\n- text: Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  start_ms: 93950\n  end_ms: 96250\n- text: A duffel bag full of guns sun-dipped in black\n  start_ms: 96250\n  end_ms: 98670\n- text: My culture flies and attacks like a vulture\n  start_ms: 98670\n  end_ms: 101220\n- text: Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n  start_ms: 101220\n  end_ms: 103610\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 103610\n  end_ms: 105710\n- text: You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 105710\n  end_ms: 108540\n- text: Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n  start_ms: 108540\n  end_ms: 110760\n- text: Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n  start_ms: 110760\n  end_ms: 113120\n- text: Be on the lookout for this mass-murderous suspect\n  start_ms: 113120\n  end_ms: 115820\n- text: That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  start_ms: 115820\n  end_ms: 118630\n- text: And as far as the coroners know\n  start_ms: 118630\n  end_ms: 120410\n- text: The autopsies show it was a Shaolin blow\n  start_ms: 120410\n  end_ms: 123270\n- text: Put on by my family, brought to the academy\n  start_ms: 123270\n  end_ms: 125820\n- text: Of the Wu and learned how to fuck up your anatomy\n  start_ms: 125820\n  end_ms: 128730\n- text: Steadily, calm and deadly\n  start_ms: 128730\n  end_ms: 130630\n- text: Splatterhead lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  start_ms: 130630\n  end_ms: 133180\n- text: MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  start_ms: 133180\n  end_ms: 135550\n- text: Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  start_ms: 135550\n  end_ms: 138090\n- text: Devils worship this like an icon\n  start_ms: 138090\n  end_ms: 139840\n- text: Bear-huggin' mics with the grips of a python\n  start_ms: 139840\n  end_ms: 142890\n- text: Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  start_ms: 142890\n  end_ms: 145070\n- text: Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  start_ms: 145070\n  end_ms: 147680\n- text: You heard other raps before, but kept waitin' for the Son of Song\n  start_ms: 147680\n  end_ms: 151180\n- text: I keep dancehalls strong\n  start_ms: 151180\n  end_ms: 152700\n- text: Beats 'nother worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  start_ms: 152700\n  end_ms: 155230\n- text: Extravaganza, time sits still\n  start_ms: 155230\n  end_ms: 157680\n- text: No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  start_ms: 157680\n  end_ms: 159860\n- text: As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n  start_ms: 159860\n  end_ms: 162560\n- text: Dedicated to rap, nigga, beware the fearsome\n  start_ms: 162560\n  end_ms: 164910\n- text: Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  start_ms: 164910\n  end_ms: 167440\n- text: CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  start_ms: 167440\n  end_ms: 169720\n- text: I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin' yet\n  start_ms: 169720\n  end_ms: 172370\n- text: One man ran tryin' to get away from it\n  start_ms: 172370\n  end_ms: 174710\n- text: Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  start_ms: 174710\n  end_ms: 177250\n- text: Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  start_ms: 177250\n  end_ms: 179580\n- text: Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  start_ms: 179580\n  end_ms: 182130\n- text: Four cores applause like a black Jack did that\n  start_ms: 182130\n  end_ms: 184490\n- text: You stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  start_ms: 184490\n  end_ms: 187050\n- text: Nowhere to go except next show, bro\n  start_ms: 187050\n  end_ms: 189460\n- text: Entertainin' motherfuckers can't stop O\n  start_ms: 189460\n  end_ms: 191610\n- text: In battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin'\n  start_ms: 191610\n  end_ms: 194480\n- text: All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattlin'\n  start_ms: 194480\n  end_ms: 196970\n- text: Bitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich\n  start_ms: 196970\n  end_ms: 199290\n- text: Every other day, my whole dress code switch\n  start_ms: 199290\n  end_ms: 201510\n- text: So just in case you wanna Clock Me Like Cherie\n  start_ms: 201510\n  end_ms: 204200\n- text: All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n  start_ms: 204200\n  end_ms: 206620\n- text: Can't get a nigga like Don Dama doesn't\n  start_ms: 206620\n  end_ms: 209090\n- text: Even if I'm smoked out, I can't be scoped out\n  start_ms: 209090\n  end_ms: 211360\n- text: I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n  start_ms: 211360\n  end_ms: 214020\n- text: See my face on the twenty-dollar bill\n  start_ms: 214020\n  end_ms: 216430\n- text: Cash it in and get ten dollars back\n  start_ms: 216430\n  end_ms: 218750\n- text: The Fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n  start_ms: 218750\n  end_ms: 221300\n- text: Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  start_ms: 221300\n  end_ms: 223610\n- text: Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  start_ms: 223610\n  end_ms: 225940\n- text: And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n  start_ms: 225940\n  end_ms: 228800\n- text: 1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  start_ms: 228800\n  end_ms: 230940\n- text: And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  start_ms: 230940\n  end_ms: 233420\n- text: I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  start_ms: 233420\n  end_ms: 235870\n- text: I'm Staten Island best, son, fuck what you heard\n  start_ms: 235870\n  end_ms: 238410\n- text: Niggas still talkin', that shit is absurd\n  start_ms: 238410\n  end_ms: 240730\n- text: My repertoire is USSR\n  start_ms: 240730\n  end_ms: 243320\n- text: PLO style got thrown out the car\n  start_ms: 243320\n  end_ms: 245630\n- text: And ran over by the Method Man jeep\n  start_ms: 245630\n  end_ms: 248110\n- text: Divine can't define, my style is so deep\n  start_ms: 248110\n  end_ms: 250440\n- text: Like pussy, my low-cut fade stay bushy\n  start_ms: 250440\n  end_ms: 252880\n- text: Like a porcupine, I pop backs like a spine\n  start_ms: 252880\n  end_ms: 255600\n- text: Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  start_ms: 255600\n  end_ms: 257890\n- text: I know you wanna diss me, but I can read your mind\n  start_ms: 257890\n  end_ms: 260180\n- text: '''Cause you weak in the knees like SWV'\n  start_ms: 260180\n  end_ms: 262850\n- text: Tryin' to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  start_ms: 262850\n  end_ms: 265140\n- text: Can't change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n  start_ms: 265140\n  end_ms: 267890\n- text: Me and RZA-Ra name-printed in the tablet\n  start_ms: 267890\n  end_ms: 270040\n- text: Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  start_ms: 270040\n  end_ms: 272720\n- text: Hibernatin' sound and now we out like beers\n  start_ms: 272720\n  end_ms: 274790\n- text: In born power, born physically, power speakin'\n  start_ms: 274790\n  end_ms: 277550\n- text: The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin'\n  start_ms: 277550\n  end_ms: 280520\n- text: ''\n  start_ms: 280520\nplain: |-\n  [Intro: Method Man, (GZA) and U-God\n  It's on\n  (Where your sparkle at, kid?)\n  RZArector!\n  Yo\n\n  Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n\n  This rhyme you digest through the RZA console\n  Ask why I slam non-diagram poems\n  Raekwon dropped the bomb, \"Hunchback of Notre Dame\"\n  Golden arms is bronze, Buddha palm hit Qu'ran\n  It blows extreme, mainstream be the theme\n  Supreme team, America's cream team, redeem\n  Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone\n\n  Gunpowder to the dome'll split the bones\n  Wig blown off the ledge by the alleged\n  Full-fledged sledge, RZA edge\n  One dose of my ferocious hand-held trigger clutch\n  Acapella spittin' shells, paralyze, you get touched\n\n  In critical, mic cords hangin' like umbilical\n  Cords, dope swords, five-star general\n  \"Raw\" be the quote, rap style sore throat\n  Through the fully operational hand-held tote, mmm-hmm\n\n  Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  A hundred thousand times one, snatch up my sounds, get done\n  I hold the title, and here's how my belt was won, check it\n\n  Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected\n  Germs start to spread through your crew, through lack of effort\n  You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes\n  My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges\n\n  Masked avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind\n  With a freestyle sharper than the Indian spear\n  So sit back and let the king explore\n  Describe me? \"The kid's nice and he holds swords in his name\"\n  Black, attack the nerve like migraines\n  With more games than beggars on trains, livin' sharp pains\n  Poisonous rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this\n\n  You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this\n  Side effects of hot raps and hot tracks\n  A duffel bag full of guns sun-dipped in black\n  My culture flies and attacks like a vulture\n  Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster\n\n  Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  You start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n  Yes, the hour's four, I told you before\n  Prepare for mic fights, and plus the cold war\n\n  Be on the lookout for this mass-murderous suspect\n  That fills more body bags than apartments in projects\n  And as far as the coroners know\n  The autopsies show it was a Shaolin blow\n  Put on by my family, brought to the academy\n  Of the Wu and learned how to fuck up your anatomy\n  Steadily, calm and deadly\n\n  Splatterhead lyrics I lick through your transmit\n  MCs submit to the will as I kill your\n  Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mental\n  Devils worship this like an icon\n  Bear-huggin' mics with the grips of a python\n\n  Yes, the shit is raw comin' at your door\n  Start to scream out loud, \"Wu-Tang's back for more\"\n\n  You heard other raps before, but kept waitin' for the Son of Song\n  I keep dancehalls strong\n\n  Beats 'nother worthy of my cause, I prolong\n  Extravaganza, time sits still\n  No propaganda, be wary of the skill\n  As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum\n\n  Dedicated to rap, nigga, beware the fearsome\n  Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat\n  CD massacre, murder to cassette\n  I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin' yet\n  One man ran tryin' to get away from it\n\n  Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh\n  Into your chamber like Freddy enter dream\n  Discombumberate your technique and your scheme\n  Four cores applause like a black Jack did that\n  You stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map\n  Nowhere to go except next show, bro\n\n  Entertainin' motherfuckers can't stop O\n  In battlin', you don't want me to start tattlin'\n  All up on the stage 'cause y'all snakes keep rattlin'\n  Bitch, you ain't got nothin' on the rich\n  Every other day, my whole dress code switch\n  So just in case you wanna Clock Me Like Cherie\n  All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry\n\n  Can't get a nigga like Don Dama doesn't\n  Even if I'm smoked out, I can't be scoped out\n  I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill\n\n  See my face on the twenty-dollar bill\n\n  Cash it in and get ten dollars back\n  The Fat LP with Cappachino on the wax\n\n  Pass it in your thing, put valve up to twelve\n  Put all the other LPs back on the shelf\n  And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7\n\n  1-6-0-4-9-3-11\n  And you could get long dick hip-hop affection\n  I damage any MC who step in my direction\n  I'm Staten Island best, son, fuck what you heard\n  Niggas still talkin', that shit is absurd\n\n  My repertoire is USSR\n  PLO style got thrown out the car\n  And ran over by the Method Man jeep\n  Divine can't define, my style is so deep\n  Like pussy, my low-cut fade stay bushy\n  Like a porcupine, I pop backs like a spine\n  Gut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design\n  I know you wanna diss me, but I can read your mind\n  'Cause you weak in the knees like SWV\n\n  Tryin' to get a title like Wu Killa Bee\n  Can't change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott\n\n  Me and RZA-Ra name-printed in the tablet\n  Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years\n  Hibernatin' sound and now we out like beers\n  In born power, born physically, power speakin'\n  The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin'\n"}]