[{"id":11429955,"name":"The Slayers Club","trackName":"The Slayers Club","artistName":"R.A. the Rugged Man","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club\n  artist: R.A. the Rugged Man\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":36545354,"name":"The Slayers Club","trackName":"The Slayers Club","artistName":"R.A. the Rugged Man M.O.P. Vinnie Paz Chris Rivers Onyx Chino XL Brand Nubian Ice‐T","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club\n  artist: R.A. the Rugged Man M.O.P. Vinnie Paz Chris Rivers Onyx Chino XL Brand Nubian Ice‐T\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":28581789,"name":"The Slayers Club","trackName":"The Slayers Club","artistName":"R.A. The Rugged Man; M.O.P.; Vinnie Paz; Chris Rivers; Onyx; Chino Xl; Brand Nubian; Ice-T","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club\n  artist: R.A. The Rugged Man; M.O.P.; Vinnie Paz; Chris Rivers; Onyx; Chino Xl; Brand Nubian; Ice-T\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":7553871,"name":"The Slayers Club","trackName":"The Slayers Club","artistName":"R.A. the Rugged Man feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice‐T","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club\n  artist: R.A. the Rugged Man feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice‐T\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":13183608,"name":"The Slayers Club","trackName":"The Slayers Club","artistName":"R.A. The Rugged Man feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice-T","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club\n  artist: R.A. The Rugged Man feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice-T\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":11429956,"name":"The Slayers Club","trackName":"The Slayers Club","artistName":"R.A. the Rugged Man feat. M.O.P., Paz, Vinnie, Rivers, Chris, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice‐T","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club\n  artist: R.A. the Rugged Man feat. M.O.P., Paz, Vinnie, Rivers, Chris, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice‐T\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":8304248,"name":"The Slayers Club (feat. Brand Nubian, Chino XL, Chris Rivers, Ice-T, M.O.P., Onyx & Vinnie Paz)","trackName":"The Slayers Club (feat. Brand Nubian, Chino XL, Chris Rivers, Ice-T, M.O.P., Onyx & Vinnie Paz)","artistName":"R.A. The Rugged Man","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club (feat. Brand Nubian, Chino XL, Chris Rivers, Ice-T, M.O.P., Onyx & Vinnie Paz)\n  artist: R.A. The Rugged Man\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":6580087,"name":"The Slayers Club (feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian & Ice-T)","trackName":"The Slayers Club (feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian & Ice-T)","artistName":"R.A. the Rugged Man","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club (feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian & Ice-T)\n  artist: R.A. the Rugged Man\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":17122415,"name":"The Slayers Club (feat. Ice-T, Vinnie Paz, Brand Nubian, Chris Rivers, Chino XL, M.O.P. & Onyx)","trackName":"The Slayers Club (feat. Ice-T, Vinnie Paz, Brand Nubian, Chris Rivers, Chino XL, M.O.P. & Onyx)","artistName":"R.A. The Rugged Man","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":265.613056,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club (feat. Ice-T, Vinnie Paz, Brand Nubian, Chris Rivers, Chino XL, M.O.P. & Onyx)\n  artist: R.A. The Rugged Man\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 265613\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":14925648,"name":"The Slayers Club (ft.  M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian, Ice-T)","trackName":"The Slayers Club (ft.  M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian, Ice-T)","artistName":"R.A. The Rugged Man","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":266.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club (ft.  M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian, Ice-T)\n  artist: R.A. The Rugged Man\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 266000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"},{"id":25155194,"name":"The Slayers Club (feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice-T)","trackName":"The Slayers Club (feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice-T)","artistName":"R.A. The Rugged Man","albumName":"All My Heroes Are Dead","duration":265.613061,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yeah, when the devil come boy\nThe devil devil gon' come come smiling\nYo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\nYo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nThis official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\nPull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\nThere was no consideration where them bullets rang at\nYou was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\nRugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\nThat's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\nBullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\nFuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\nY'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\nAll facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\nPause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\nSplatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\nGuess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\nI can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\nAnd break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\nEndlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\nThe living god that is held at the highest regard\nWith more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\nWho got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\nWith a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\nBut I'm spittin' raw voodoo\nI saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\nAnd I'm a magician, give you a face peel\nNot the type you get from an aesthetician\nI stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\nIf y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nStrap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\nYou better buckle up, we running niggas over\nIf I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\nYou ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\nI'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\nWhere crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\nWhen niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\nCut his face up, now he need stitches\n\nI snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\nIn Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\nI gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\nI cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\nThe bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\nSlap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\nI rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\nI crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\nBran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\nBr-Brand Nubian\n\nPunks jump up to get beat down\nI'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\nNiggas want beef? Get your meat ground\nNYC, this not a sweet town\nHear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\nHave you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\nThis is personal, it ain't shit about bread\nReversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\nSame script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\nLiveness, still outta control for ya\nWe home team, we gon' roll for ya\nMarksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\nYeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\nLong range, boom! Let it go for ya\nM.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\nYeah, Iceberg, nigga\nThe Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\nMy niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\nMy niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\nThought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\nMy gats ain't semi, they belt fed\nPop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\nFound out where you lived on your Instagram\n25 cops at the crime scene\nMy niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\nBurn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\nMore whips than The Passion of Christ\n\nBlam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\nTell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\nNigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\nTell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n(Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n(We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n(We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\nYou already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\nBong!","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: The Slayers Club (feat. M.O.P., Vinnie Paz, Chris Rivers, Onyx, Chino XL, Brand Nubian and Ice-T)\n  artist: R.A. The Rugged Man\n  album: All My Heroes Are Dead\n  duration_ms: 265613\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yeah, when the devil come boy\n  The devil devil gon' come come smiling\n  Yo, what the fuck these niggas talking about, man?\n  Yo R.A., love you brother, yeah\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  This official pistol gang, Philly where we bang at\n  Pull up in the Bugatti and hit 'em where they hang at\n  There was no consideration where them bullets rang at\n  You was gettin' popped if you was hangin' where they slang at\n  Rugged Man is always wildin' out, boy trippin'\n  That's what you get for thinkin' you live like an audition\n  Bullets coming out of the blue like they called Griffin\n  Fuel injector, funeral director, the mortician\n\n  Y'all better fall back or get jaws cracked\n  All facts, I go to your skull, y'all softer than ballsacks\n  Pause, but say my force is the Fourth Horsemen, I'm all that\n  Splatter your organs, spread it on walls and call it a Rorschach\n  Guess the image is a butterfly, my fist is lightning, rain and thunder\n  I can snuff a guy and make him wish his mother died\n  And break anatomy, chemically causing casualties\n  Endlessly blow your brains out or shatter your memories\n\n  The living god that is held at the highest regard\n  With more sick entries than Whitney Houston's toxicology report\n  Who got top chart position in an image that's tricking the children\n  With a little litter that's some other bitter imbecile has written\n  But I'm spittin' raw voodoo\n  I saw through you like a woman in a wooden box\n  And I'm a magician, give you a face peel\n  Not the type you get from an aesthetician\n  I stomp your skull 'til it breaks with an ice skate\n  If y'all niggas is lit, then Chino's burned at the stake\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Strap the fuck up, I just came out a coma\n  You better buckle up, we running niggas over\n  If I ain't throwin' shots, then I must've been sober\n  You ain't smoking sticky-icky, one hit'll choke ya\n  I'm sick with it, a mental patient psyche would admit it\n  Where crimes get committed and niggas get drug addicted\n  When niggas on Rikers be biddin', razors be getting spit in\n  Cut his face up, now he need stitches\n\n  I snatch purses, I piss in churches, I work the burners\n  In Lucifer's furnace, sip the blood of a virgin out of a thermos\n  I gun buck 'em, fuck a fist, the Razor Ruddock cut a wrist\n  I cut 'em, gut 'em like a fish and let 'em lay in gutter piss\n  The bats, gats, battle ax make a back collapse\n  Slap a Democrat, pack a rat, smack crackers in MAGA hats\n  I rewind the time, put you in a dumpster aborted\n  I crush your skull into dust, chop it to powder and snort it\n\n  Bran-Br-Br-Brand Nubian (Once again!)\n  Br-Brand Nubian\n\n  Punks jump up to get beat down\n  I'll throw you in a fuckin' trunk with your feet bound\n  Niggas want beef? Get your meat ground\n  NYC, this not a sweet town\n  Hear the crack of the bones and let the streets run red\n  Have you shackled in your home with the gun to your head\n  This is personal, it ain't shit about bread\n  Reversible skull when I'm splittin' that head\n\n  Same script, who come up outta the fold for ya?\n  Liveness, still outta control for ya\n  We home team, we gon' roll for ya\n  Marksmen, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, put 'em in a hole for ya\n  Yeah, yeah, creep up on 'em slow for ya\n  Long range, boom! Let it go for ya\n  M.O.P., we put 'em in a hole for ya\n\n  Yeah, Iceberg, nigga\n  The Rugged Man made the call, I'm here\n  My niggas ain't Bloods, they straight Crippin'\n  My niggas ain't cool, they set trippin'\n  Thought it was a game, 'til you felt that hot lead\n  My gats ain't semi, they belt fed\n  Pop up at ya motherfuckin' crib like god damn\n  Found out where you lived on your Instagram\n  25 cops at the crime scene\n  My niggas crash your pad like a SEAL Team\n  Burn motherfucker, one syllable Ice\n  More whips than The Passion of Christ\n\n  Blam-bong, blam-bong, blood lies and alibis\n  Tell his mama reply before this turn into a homicide\n  Nigga, ante up the ransom (Come on!)\n  Tell that bitch to hurry up before I blam son\n  (Cause we) Do it all day (We) do it the hard way\n  (We) Do it the Brook-nam way, I'm talkin' broad day\n  (We) We be the M.O. (M.O.) MO-Ps\n  You already know my M.O. (M.O.) OGs\n  Bong!\n"}]