[{"id":14088623,"name":"Duck Seazon (Wu Tang Clan)","trackName":"Duck Seazon (Wu Tang Clan)","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon (Wu Tang Clan)\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":18283958,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Clan - Wu-Tang Forever Disc 2","duration":342.447187,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Clan - Wu-Tang Forever Disc 2\n  duration_ms: 342447\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":1902901,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.94] We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n[00:04.54] When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n[00:08.98] And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n[00:13.44] Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n[00:17.91] Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n[00:22.07] My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n[00:25.02] Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n[00:27.72] What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n[00:29.74] Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n[00:33.26] Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n[00:35.97] How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n[00:39.19] Now my proposal rips the global\n[00:40.99] From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n[00:44.62] Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n[00:47.92] Shorty called me Santa in December\n[00:50.08] But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n[00:52.48] Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n[00:55.60] We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n[00:59.20] Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n[01:01.16] Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n[01:04.33] We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n[01:06.96] Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n[01:10.12] Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n[01:12.55] Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n[01:14.85] You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n[01:18.08] Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n[01:20.67] Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n[01:23.76] Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n[01:27.07] Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n[01:29.56] You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n[01:32.52] Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n[01:35.11] Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n[01:37.15] But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n[01:40.44] Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n[01:42.88] So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n[01:47.75] Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n[01:49.69] We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n[01:50.82] You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n[01:54.18] I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n[01:57.23] No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n[01:59.58] When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n[02:02.65] It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n[02:05.23] Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n[02:07.97] Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n[02:10.77] Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n[02:13.15] Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n[02:15.36] Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n[02:16.96] \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"\n[02:19.36] You fall like autumn leaves\n[02:20.67] You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n[02:24.42] Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n[02:26.49] Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n[02:28.73] Ancient poems of poetry\n[02:30.25] Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n[02:32.24] Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n[02:34.48] With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n[02:37.14] Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n[02:40.32] I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n[02:42.64] Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n[02:45.40] Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n[02:48.28] And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n[02:52.57] I need 18 points on my next joint\n[02:54.52] This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n[02:58.03] Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n[03:00.22] To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n[03:03.81] I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n[03:06.59] And built with thousands of scholars\n[03:08.41] My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n[03:10.63] Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n[03:12.37] I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n[03:15.15] We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n[03:17.62] And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n[03:20.32] Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n[03:23.68] But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n[03:26.29] Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n[03:29.30] Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n[03:31.83] This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n[03:35.76] Collectin' minds at the door\n[03:37.26] You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n[03:39.99] What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n[03:43.02] Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n[03:46.28] We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n[03:48.68] Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n[03:51.36] Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n[03:54.23] Bring it to 'em, room service\n[03:55.93] Under pressure and mad nervy\n[03:58.04] Wavin' guns at the clergy\n[03:59.77] Ticallion, we ain't worried\n[04:01.45] Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n[04:03.69] Picture this, watch the birdie\n[04:05.28] These bastards is old and dirty\n[04:07.03] With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n[04:08.96] Pins and needles, needles and pins\n[04:10.90] 'Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n[04:13.57] As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n[04:16.28] Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n[04:19.21] Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n[04:22.07] That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n[04:25.20] Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n[04:27.26] Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n[04:30.85] Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n[04:33.45] Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n[04:36.67] Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n[04:38.48] You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n[04:42.34] Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n[04:44.47] Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n[04:46.37] Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n[04:49.78] We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n[04:52.93] Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n[04:55.93] Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n[04:57.98] James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n[05:00.56] Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n[05:02.72] He caught a slug for lying\n[05:04.28] Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n[05:06.42] Militia, rollin' in position\n[05:08.66] Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n[05:10.60] Lex retali' back whistling\n[05:13.27] Fake fucks\n[05:25.54] How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n[05:28.46] For that you're gonna die\n[05:30.06] I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n[05:34.91] Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n[05:38.99] There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n[05:42.43] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n  start_ms: 940\n  end_ms: 4540\n- text: When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n  start_ms: 4540\n  end_ms: 8980\n- text: And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n  start_ms: 8980\n  end_ms: 13440\n- text: Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n  start_ms: 13440\n  end_ms: 17910\n- text: Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n  start_ms: 17910\n  end_ms: 22070\n- text: My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  start_ms: 22070\n  end_ms: 25020\n- text: Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n  start_ms: 25020\n  end_ms: 27720\n- text: What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n  start_ms: 27720\n  end_ms: 29740\n- text: Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n  start_ms: 29740\n  end_ms: 33260\n- text: Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n  start_ms: 33260\n  end_ms: 35970\n- text: How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n  start_ms: 35970\n  end_ms: 39190\n- text: Now my proposal rips the global\n  start_ms: 39190\n  end_ms: 40990\n- text: From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n  start_ms: 40990\n  end_ms: 44620\n- text: Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n  start_ms: 44620\n  end_ms: 47920\n- text: Shorty called me Santa in December\n  start_ms: 47920\n  end_ms: 50080\n- text: But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n  start_ms: 50080\n  end_ms: 52480\n- text: Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  start_ms: 52480\n  end_ms: 55600\n- text: We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n  start_ms: 55600\n  end_ms: 59200\n- text: Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  start_ms: 59200\n  end_ms: 61160\n- text: Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n  start_ms: 61160\n  end_ms: 64330\n- text: We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n  start_ms: 64330\n  end_ms: 66960\n- text: Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n  start_ms: 66960\n  end_ms: 70120\n- text: Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  start_ms: 70120\n  end_ms: 72550\n- text: Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n  start_ms: 72550\n  end_ms: 74850\n- text: You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  start_ms: 74850\n  end_ms: 78080\n- text: Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n  start_ms: 78080\n  end_ms: 80670\n- text: Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  start_ms: 80670\n  end_ms: 83760\n- text: Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  start_ms: 83760\n  end_ms: 87070\n- text: Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n  start_ms: 87070\n  end_ms: 89560\n- text: You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n  start_ms: 89560\n  end_ms: 92520\n- text: Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  start_ms: 92520\n  end_ms: 95110\n- text: Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  start_ms: 95110\n  end_ms: 97150\n- text: But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n  start_ms: 97150\n  end_ms: 100440\n- text: Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  start_ms: 100440\n  end_ms: 102880\n- text: So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n  start_ms: 102880\n  end_ms: 107750\n- text: Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n  start_ms: 107750\n  end_ms: 109690\n- text: We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n  start_ms: 109690\n  end_ms: 110820\n- text: You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n  start_ms: 110820\n  end_ms: 114180\n- text: I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  start_ms: 114180\n  end_ms: 117230\n- text: No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  start_ms: 117230\n  end_ms: 119580\n- text: When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n  start_ms: 119580\n  end_ms: 122650\n- text: It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n  start_ms: 122650\n  end_ms: 125230\n- text: Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n  start_ms: 125230\n  end_ms: 127970\n- text: Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n  start_ms: 127970\n  end_ms: 130770\n- text: Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  start_ms: 130770\n  end_ms: 133150\n- text: Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  start_ms: 133150\n  end_ms: 135360\n- text: Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n  start_ms: 135360\n  end_ms: 136960\n- text: '\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"'\n  start_ms: 136960\n  end_ms: 139360\n- text: You fall like autumn leaves\n  start_ms: 139360\n  end_ms: 140670\n- text: You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n  start_ms: 140670\n  end_ms: 144420\n- text: Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  start_ms: 144420\n  end_ms: 146490\n- text: Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  start_ms: 146490\n  end_ms: 148730\n- text: Ancient poems of poetry\n  start_ms: 148730\n  end_ms: 150250\n- text: Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n  start_ms: 150250\n  end_ms: 152240\n- text: Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n  start_ms: 152240\n  end_ms: 154480\n- text: With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n  start_ms: 154480\n  end_ms: 157140\n- text: Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n  start_ms: 157140\n  end_ms: 160320\n- text: I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n  start_ms: 160320\n  end_ms: 162640\n- text: Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  start_ms: 162640\n  end_ms: 165400\n- text: Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  start_ms: 165400\n  end_ms: 168280\n- text: And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n  start_ms: 168280\n  end_ms: 172570\n- text: I need 18 points on my next joint\n  start_ms: 172570\n  end_ms: 174520\n- text: This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  start_ms: 174520\n  end_ms: 178030\n- text: Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n  start_ms: 178030\n  end_ms: 180220\n- text: To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  start_ms: 180220\n  end_ms: 183810\n- text: I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n  start_ms: 183810\n  end_ms: 186590\n- text: And built with thousands of scholars\n  start_ms: 186590\n  end_ms: 188410\n- text: My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  start_ms: 188410\n  end_ms: 190630\n- text: Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n  start_ms: 190630\n  end_ms: 192370\n- text: I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n  start_ms: 192370\n  end_ms: 195150\n- text: We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  start_ms: 195150\n  end_ms: 197620\n- text: And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  start_ms: 197620\n  end_ms: 200320\n- text: Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n  start_ms: 200320\n  end_ms: 203680\n- text: But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n  start_ms: 203680\n  end_ms: 206290\n- text: Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n  start_ms: 206290\n  end_ms: 209300\n- text: Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n  start_ms: 209300\n  end_ms: 211830\n- text: This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n  start_ms: 211830\n  end_ms: 215760\n- text: Collectin' minds at the door\n  start_ms: 215760\n  end_ms: 217260\n- text: You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n  start_ms: 217260\n  end_ms: 219990\n- text: What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n  start_ms: 219990\n  end_ms: 223020\n- text: Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n  start_ms: 223020\n  end_ms: 226280\n- text: We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n  start_ms: 226280\n  end_ms: 228680\n- text: Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n  start_ms: 228680\n  end_ms: 231360\n- text: Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  start_ms: 231360\n  end_ms: 234230\n- text: Bring it to 'em, room service\n  start_ms: 234230\n  end_ms: 235930\n- text: Under pressure and mad nervy\n  start_ms: 235930\n  end_ms: 238040\n- text: Wavin' guns at the clergy\n  start_ms: 238040\n  end_ms: 239770\n- text: Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  start_ms: 239770\n  end_ms: 241450\n- text: Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n  start_ms: 241450\n  end_ms: 243690\n- text: Picture this, watch the birdie\n  start_ms: 243690\n  end_ms: 245280\n- text: These bastards is old and dirty\n  start_ms: 245280\n  end_ms: 247030\n- text: With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n  start_ms: 247030\n  end_ms: 248960\n- text: Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  start_ms: 248960\n  end_ms: 250900\n- text: '''Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'''\n  start_ms: 250900\n  end_ms: 253570\n- text: As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n  start_ms: 253570\n  end_ms: 256280\n- text: Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n  start_ms: 256280\n  end_ms: 259210\n- text: Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n  start_ms: 259210\n  end_ms: 262070\n- text: That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  start_ms: 262070\n  end_ms: 265200\n- text: Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  start_ms: 265200\n  end_ms: 267260\n- text: Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n  start_ms: 267260\n  end_ms: 270850\n- text: Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n  start_ms: 270850\n  end_ms: 273450\n- text: Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  start_ms: 273450\n  end_ms: 276670\n- text: Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n  start_ms: 276670\n  end_ms: 278480\n- text: You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n  start_ms: 278480\n  end_ms: 282340\n- text: Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  start_ms: 282340\n  end_ms: 284470\n- text: Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  start_ms: 284470\n  end_ms: 286370\n- text: Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n  start_ms: 286370\n  end_ms: 289780\n- text: We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n  start_ms: 289780\n  end_ms: 292930\n- text: Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n  start_ms: 292930\n  end_ms: 295930\n- text: Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  start_ms: 295930\n  end_ms: 297980\n- text: James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  start_ms: 297980\n  end_ms: 300560\n- text: Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  start_ms: 300560\n  end_ms: 302720\n- text: He caught a slug for lying\n  start_ms: 302720\n  end_ms: 304280\n- text: Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n  start_ms: 304280\n  end_ms: 306420\n- text: Militia, rollin' in position\n  start_ms: 306420\n  end_ms: 308660\n- text: Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n  start_ms: 308660\n  end_ms: 310600\n- text: Lex retali' back whistling\n  start_ms: 310600\n  end_ms: 313270\n- text: Fake fucks\n  start_ms: 313270\n  end_ms: 325540\n- text: How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n  start_ms: 325540\n  end_ms: 328460\n- text: For that you're gonna die\n  start_ms: 328460\n  end_ms: 330060\n- text: I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n  start_ms: 330060\n  end_ms: 334910\n- text: Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n  start_ms: 334910\n  end_ms: 338990\n- text: There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n  start_ms: 338990\n  end_ms: 342430\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":1902902,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.94] We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n[00:04.54] When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n[00:08.98] And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n[00:13.44] Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n[00:17.91] Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n[00:22.07] My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n[00:25.02] Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n[00:27.72] What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n[00:29.74] Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n[00:33.26] Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n[00:35.97] How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n[00:39.19] Now my proposal rips the global\n[00:40.99] From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n[00:44.62] Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n[00:47.92] Shorty called me Santa in December\n[00:50.08] But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n[00:52.48] Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n[00:55.60] We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n[00:59.20] Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n[01:01.16] Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n[01:04.33] We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n[01:06.96] Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n[01:10.12] Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n[01:12.55] Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n[01:14.85] You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n[01:18.08] Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n[01:20.67] Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n[01:23.76] Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n[01:27.07] Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n[01:29.56] You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n[01:32.52] Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n[01:35.11] Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n[01:37.15] But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n[01:40.44] Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n[01:42.88] So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n[01:47.75] Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n[01:49.69] We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n[01:50.82] You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n[01:54.18] I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n[01:57.23] No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n[01:59.58] When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n[02:02.65] It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n[02:05.23] Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n[02:07.97] Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n[02:10.77] Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n[02:13.15] Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n[02:15.36] Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n[02:16.96] \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"\n[02:19.36] You fall like autumn leaves\n[02:20.67] You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n[02:24.42] Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n[02:26.49] Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n[02:28.73] Ancient poems of poetry\n[02:30.25] Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n[02:32.24] Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n[02:34.48] With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n[02:37.14] Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n[02:40.32] I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n[02:42.64] Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n[02:45.40] Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n[02:48.28] And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n[02:52.57] I need 18 points on my next joint\n[02:54.52] This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n[02:58.03] Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n[03:00.22] To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n[03:03.81] I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n[03:06.59] And built with thousands of scholars\n[03:08.41] My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n[03:10.63] Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n[03:12.37] I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n[03:15.15] We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n[03:17.62] And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n[03:20.32] Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n[03:23.68] But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n[03:26.29] Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n[03:29.30] Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n[03:31.83] This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n[03:35.76] Collectin' minds at the door\n[03:37.26] You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n[03:39.99] What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n[03:43.02] Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n[03:46.28] We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n[03:48.68] Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n[03:51.36] Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n[03:54.23] Bring it to 'em, room service\n[03:55.93] Under pressure and mad nervy\n[03:58.04] Wavin' guns at the clergy\n[03:59.77] Ticallion, we ain't worried\n[04:01.45] Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n[04:03.69] Picture this, watch the birdie\n[04:05.28] These bastards is old and dirty\n[04:07.03] With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n[04:08.96] Pins and needles, needles and pins\n[04:10.90] 'Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n[04:13.57] As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n[04:16.28] Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n[04:19.21] Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n[04:22.07] That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n[04:25.20] Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n[04:27.26] Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n[04:30.85] Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n[04:33.45] Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n[04:36.67] Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n[04:38.48] You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n[04:42.34] Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n[04:44.47] Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n[04:46.37] Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n[04:49.78] We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n[04:52.93] Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n[04:55.93] Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n[04:57.98] James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n[05:00.56] Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n[05:02.72] He caught a slug for lying\n[05:04.28] Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n[05:06.42] Militia, rollin' in position\n[05:08.66] Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n[05:10.60] Lex retali' back whistling\n[05:13.27] Fake fucks\n[05:25.54] How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n[05:28.46] For that you're gonna die\n[05:30.06] I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n[05:34.91] Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n[05:38.99] There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n[05:42.43] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n  start_ms: 940\n  end_ms: 4540\n- text: When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n  start_ms: 4540\n  end_ms: 8980\n- text: And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n  start_ms: 8980\n  end_ms: 13440\n- text: Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n  start_ms: 13440\n  end_ms: 17910\n- text: Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n  start_ms: 17910\n  end_ms: 22070\n- text: My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  start_ms: 22070\n  end_ms: 25020\n- text: Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n  start_ms: 25020\n  end_ms: 27720\n- text: What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n  start_ms: 27720\n  end_ms: 29740\n- text: Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n  start_ms: 29740\n  end_ms: 33260\n- text: Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n  start_ms: 33260\n  end_ms: 35970\n- text: How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n  start_ms: 35970\n  end_ms: 39190\n- text: Now my proposal rips the global\n  start_ms: 39190\n  end_ms: 40990\n- text: From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n  start_ms: 40990\n  end_ms: 44620\n- text: Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n  start_ms: 44620\n  end_ms: 47920\n- text: Shorty called me Santa in December\n  start_ms: 47920\n  end_ms: 50080\n- text: But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n  start_ms: 50080\n  end_ms: 52480\n- text: Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  start_ms: 52480\n  end_ms: 55600\n- text: We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n  start_ms: 55600\n  end_ms: 59200\n- text: Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  start_ms: 59200\n  end_ms: 61160\n- text: Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n  start_ms: 61160\n  end_ms: 64330\n- text: We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n  start_ms: 64330\n  end_ms: 66960\n- text: Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n  start_ms: 66960\n  end_ms: 70120\n- text: Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  start_ms: 70120\n  end_ms: 72550\n- text: Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n  start_ms: 72550\n  end_ms: 74850\n- text: You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  start_ms: 74850\n  end_ms: 78080\n- text: Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n  start_ms: 78080\n  end_ms: 80670\n- text: Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  start_ms: 80670\n  end_ms: 83760\n- text: Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  start_ms: 83760\n  end_ms: 87070\n- text: Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n  start_ms: 87070\n  end_ms: 89560\n- text: You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n  start_ms: 89560\n  end_ms: 92520\n- text: Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  start_ms: 92520\n  end_ms: 95110\n- text: Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  start_ms: 95110\n  end_ms: 97150\n- text: But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n  start_ms: 97150\n  end_ms: 100440\n- text: Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  start_ms: 100440\n  end_ms: 102880\n- text: So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n  start_ms: 102880\n  end_ms: 107750\n- text: Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n  start_ms: 107750\n  end_ms: 109690\n- text: We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n  start_ms: 109690\n  end_ms: 110820\n- text: You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n  start_ms: 110820\n  end_ms: 114180\n- text: I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  start_ms: 114180\n  end_ms: 117230\n- text: No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  start_ms: 117230\n  end_ms: 119580\n- text: When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n  start_ms: 119580\n  end_ms: 122650\n- text: It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n  start_ms: 122650\n  end_ms: 125230\n- text: Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n  start_ms: 125230\n  end_ms: 127970\n- text: Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n  start_ms: 127970\n  end_ms: 130770\n- text: Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  start_ms: 130770\n  end_ms: 133150\n- text: Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  start_ms: 133150\n  end_ms: 135360\n- text: Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n  start_ms: 135360\n  end_ms: 136960\n- text: '\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"'\n  start_ms: 136960\n  end_ms: 139360\n- text: You fall like autumn leaves\n  start_ms: 139360\n  end_ms: 140670\n- text: You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n  start_ms: 140670\n  end_ms: 144420\n- text: Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  start_ms: 144420\n  end_ms: 146490\n- text: Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  start_ms: 146490\n  end_ms: 148730\n- text: Ancient poems of poetry\n  start_ms: 148730\n  end_ms: 150250\n- text: Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n  start_ms: 150250\n  end_ms: 152240\n- text: Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n  start_ms: 152240\n  end_ms: 154480\n- text: With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n  start_ms: 154480\n  end_ms: 157140\n- text: Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n  start_ms: 157140\n  end_ms: 160320\n- text: I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n  start_ms: 160320\n  end_ms: 162640\n- text: Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  start_ms: 162640\n  end_ms: 165400\n- text: Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  start_ms: 165400\n  end_ms: 168280\n- text: And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n  start_ms: 168280\n  end_ms: 172570\n- text: I need 18 points on my next joint\n  start_ms: 172570\n  end_ms: 174520\n- text: This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  start_ms: 174520\n  end_ms: 178030\n- text: Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n  start_ms: 178030\n  end_ms: 180220\n- text: To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  start_ms: 180220\n  end_ms: 183810\n- text: I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n  start_ms: 183810\n  end_ms: 186590\n- text: And built with thousands of scholars\n  start_ms: 186590\n  end_ms: 188410\n- text: My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  start_ms: 188410\n  end_ms: 190630\n- text: Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n  start_ms: 190630\n  end_ms: 192370\n- text: I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n  start_ms: 192370\n  end_ms: 195150\n- text: We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  start_ms: 195150\n  end_ms: 197620\n- text: And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  start_ms: 197620\n  end_ms: 200320\n- text: Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n  start_ms: 200320\n  end_ms: 203680\n- text: But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n  start_ms: 203680\n  end_ms: 206290\n- text: Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n  start_ms: 206290\n  end_ms: 209300\n- text: Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n  start_ms: 209300\n  end_ms: 211830\n- text: This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n  start_ms: 211830\n  end_ms: 215760\n- text: Collectin' minds at the door\n  start_ms: 215760\n  end_ms: 217260\n- text: You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n  start_ms: 217260\n  end_ms: 219990\n- text: What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n  start_ms: 219990\n  end_ms: 223020\n- text: Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n  start_ms: 223020\n  end_ms: 226280\n- text: We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n  start_ms: 226280\n  end_ms: 228680\n- text: Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n  start_ms: 228680\n  end_ms: 231360\n- text: Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  start_ms: 231360\n  end_ms: 234230\n- text: Bring it to 'em, room service\n  start_ms: 234230\n  end_ms: 235930\n- text: Under pressure and mad nervy\n  start_ms: 235930\n  end_ms: 238040\n- text: Wavin' guns at the clergy\n  start_ms: 238040\n  end_ms: 239770\n- text: Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  start_ms: 239770\n  end_ms: 241450\n- text: Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n  start_ms: 241450\n  end_ms: 243690\n- text: Picture this, watch the birdie\n  start_ms: 243690\n  end_ms: 245280\n- text: These bastards is old and dirty\n  start_ms: 245280\n  end_ms: 247030\n- text: With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n  start_ms: 247030\n  end_ms: 248960\n- text: Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  start_ms: 248960\n  end_ms: 250900\n- text: '''Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'''\n  start_ms: 250900\n  end_ms: 253570\n- text: As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n  start_ms: 253570\n  end_ms: 256280\n- text: Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n  start_ms: 256280\n  end_ms: 259210\n- text: Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n  start_ms: 259210\n  end_ms: 262070\n- text: That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  start_ms: 262070\n  end_ms: 265200\n- text: Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  start_ms: 265200\n  end_ms: 267260\n- text: Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n  start_ms: 267260\n  end_ms: 270850\n- text: Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n  start_ms: 270850\n  end_ms: 273450\n- text: Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  start_ms: 273450\n  end_ms: 276670\n- text: Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n  start_ms: 276670\n  end_ms: 278480\n- text: You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n  start_ms: 278480\n  end_ms: 282340\n- text: Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  start_ms: 282340\n  end_ms: 284470\n- text: Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  start_ms: 284470\n  end_ms: 286370\n- text: Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n  start_ms: 286370\n  end_ms: 289780\n- text: We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n  start_ms: 289780\n  end_ms: 292930\n- text: Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n  start_ms: 292930\n  end_ms: 295930\n- text: Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  start_ms: 295930\n  end_ms: 297980\n- text: James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  start_ms: 297980\n  end_ms: 300560\n- text: Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  start_ms: 300560\n  end_ms: 302720\n- text: He caught a slug for lying\n  start_ms: 302720\n  end_ms: 304280\n- text: Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n  start_ms: 304280\n  end_ms: 306420\n- text: Militia, rollin' in position\n  start_ms: 306420\n  end_ms: 308660\n- text: Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n  start_ms: 308660\n  end_ms: 310600\n- text: Lex retali' back whistling\n  start_ms: 310600\n  end_ms: 313270\n- text: Fake fucks\n  start_ms: 313270\n  end_ms: 325540\n- text: How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n  start_ms: 325540\n  end_ms: 328460\n- text: For that you're gonna die\n  start_ms: 328460\n  end_ms: 330060\n- text: I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n  start_ms: 330060\n  end_ms: 334910\n- text: Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n  start_ms: 334910\n  end_ms: 338990\n- text: There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n  start_ms: 338990\n  end_ms: 342430\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":9287822,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.94] We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n[00:04.54] When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n[00:08.98] And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n[00:13.44] Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n[00:17.91] Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n[00:22.07] My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n[00:25.02] Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n[00:27.72] What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n[00:29.74] Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n[00:33.26] Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n[00:35.97] How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n[00:39.19] Now my proposal rips the global\n[00:40.99] From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n[00:44.62] Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n[00:47.92] Shorty called me Santa in December\n[00:50.08] But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n[00:52.48] Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n[00:55.60] We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n[00:59.20] Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n[01:01.16] Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n[01:04.33] We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n[01:06.96] Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n[01:10.12] Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n[01:12.55] Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n[01:14.85] You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n[01:18.08] Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n[01:20.67] Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n[01:23.76] Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n[01:27.07] Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n[01:29.56] You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n[01:32.52] Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n[01:35.11] Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n[01:37.15] But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n[01:40.44] Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n[01:42.88] So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n[01:47.75] Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n[01:49.69] We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n[01:50.82] You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n[01:54.18] I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n[01:57.23] No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n[01:59.58] When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n[02:02.65] It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n[02:05.23] Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n[02:07.97] Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n[02:10.77] Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n[02:13.15] Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n[02:15.36] Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n[02:16.96] \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"\n[02:19.36] You fall like autumn leaves\n[02:20.67] You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n[02:24.42] Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n[02:26.49] Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n[02:28.73] Ancient poems of poetry\n[02:30.25] Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n[02:32.24] Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n[02:34.48] With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n[02:37.14] Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n[02:40.32] I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n[02:42.64] Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n[02:45.40] Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n[02:48.28] And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n[02:52.57] I need 18 points on my next joint\n[02:54.52] This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n[02:58.03] Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n[03:00.22] To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n[03:03.81] I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n[03:06.59] And built with thousands of scholars\n[03:08.41] My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n[03:10.63] Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n[03:12.37] I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n[03:15.15] We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n[03:17.62] And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n[03:20.32] Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n[03:23.68] But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n[03:26.29] Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n[03:29.30] Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n[03:31.83] This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n[03:35.76] Collectin' minds at the door\n[03:37.26] You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n[03:39.99] What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n[03:43.02] Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n[03:46.28] We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n[03:48.68] Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n[03:51.36] Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n[03:54.23] Bring it to 'em, room service\n[03:55.93] Under pressure and mad nervy\n[03:58.04] Wavin' guns at the clergy\n[03:59.77] Ticallion, we ain't worried\n[04:01.45] Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n[04:03.69] Picture this, watch the birdie\n[04:05.28] These bastards is old and dirty\n[04:07.03] With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n[04:08.96] Pins and needles, needles and pins\n[04:10.90] 'Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n[04:13.57] As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n[04:16.28] Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n[04:19.21] Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n[04:22.07] That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n[04:25.20] Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n[04:27.26] Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n[04:30.85] Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n[04:33.45] Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n[04:36.67] Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n[04:38.48] You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n[04:42.34] Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n[04:44.47] Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n[04:46.37] Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n[04:49.78] We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n[04:52.93] Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n[04:55.93] Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n[04:57.98] James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n[05:00.56] Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n[05:02.72] He caught a slug for lying\n[05:04.28] Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n[05:06.42] Militia, rollin' in position\n[05:08.66] Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n[05:10.60] Lex retali' back whistling\n[05:13.27] Fake fucks\n[05:25.54] How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n[05:28.46] For that you're gonna die\n[05:30.06] I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n[05:34.91] Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n[05:38.99] There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n[05:42.43] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n  start_ms: 940\n  end_ms: 4540\n- text: When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n  start_ms: 4540\n  end_ms: 8980\n- text: And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n  start_ms: 8980\n  end_ms: 13440\n- text: Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n  start_ms: 13440\n  end_ms: 17910\n- text: Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n  start_ms: 17910\n  end_ms: 22070\n- text: My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  start_ms: 22070\n  end_ms: 25020\n- text: Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n  start_ms: 25020\n  end_ms: 27720\n- text: What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n  start_ms: 27720\n  end_ms: 29740\n- text: Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n  start_ms: 29740\n  end_ms: 33260\n- text: Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n  start_ms: 33260\n  end_ms: 35970\n- text: How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n  start_ms: 35970\n  end_ms: 39190\n- text: Now my proposal rips the global\n  start_ms: 39190\n  end_ms: 40990\n- text: From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n  start_ms: 40990\n  end_ms: 44620\n- text: Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n  start_ms: 44620\n  end_ms: 47920\n- text: Shorty called me Santa in December\n  start_ms: 47920\n  end_ms: 50080\n- text: But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n  start_ms: 50080\n  end_ms: 52480\n- text: Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  start_ms: 52480\n  end_ms: 55600\n- text: We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n  start_ms: 55600\n  end_ms: 59200\n- text: Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  start_ms: 59200\n  end_ms: 61160\n- text: Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n  start_ms: 61160\n  end_ms: 64330\n- text: We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n  start_ms: 64330\n  end_ms: 66960\n- text: Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n  start_ms: 66960\n  end_ms: 70120\n- text: Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  start_ms: 70120\n  end_ms: 72550\n- text: Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n  start_ms: 72550\n  end_ms: 74850\n- text: You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  start_ms: 74850\n  end_ms: 78080\n- text: Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n  start_ms: 78080\n  end_ms: 80670\n- text: Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  start_ms: 80670\n  end_ms: 83760\n- text: Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  start_ms: 83760\n  end_ms: 87070\n- text: Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n  start_ms: 87070\n  end_ms: 89560\n- text: You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n  start_ms: 89560\n  end_ms: 92520\n- text: Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  start_ms: 92520\n  end_ms: 95110\n- text: Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  start_ms: 95110\n  end_ms: 97150\n- text: But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n  start_ms: 97150\n  end_ms: 100440\n- text: Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  start_ms: 100440\n  end_ms: 102880\n- text: So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n  start_ms: 102880\n  end_ms: 107750\n- text: Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n  start_ms: 107750\n  end_ms: 109690\n- text: We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n  start_ms: 109690\n  end_ms: 110820\n- text: You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n  start_ms: 110820\n  end_ms: 114180\n- text: I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  start_ms: 114180\n  end_ms: 117230\n- text: No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  start_ms: 117230\n  end_ms: 119580\n- text: When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n  start_ms: 119580\n  end_ms: 122650\n- text: It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n  start_ms: 122650\n  end_ms: 125230\n- text: Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n  start_ms: 125230\n  end_ms: 127970\n- text: Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n  start_ms: 127970\n  end_ms: 130770\n- text: Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  start_ms: 130770\n  end_ms: 133150\n- text: Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  start_ms: 133150\n  end_ms: 135360\n- text: Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n  start_ms: 135360\n  end_ms: 136960\n- text: '\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"'\n  start_ms: 136960\n  end_ms: 139360\n- text: You fall like autumn leaves\n  start_ms: 139360\n  end_ms: 140670\n- text: You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n  start_ms: 140670\n  end_ms: 144420\n- text: Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  start_ms: 144420\n  end_ms: 146490\n- text: Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  start_ms: 146490\n  end_ms: 148730\n- text: Ancient poems of poetry\n  start_ms: 148730\n  end_ms: 150250\n- text: Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n  start_ms: 150250\n  end_ms: 152240\n- text: Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n  start_ms: 152240\n  end_ms: 154480\n- text: With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n  start_ms: 154480\n  end_ms: 157140\n- text: Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n  start_ms: 157140\n  end_ms: 160320\n- text: I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n  start_ms: 160320\n  end_ms: 162640\n- text: Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  start_ms: 162640\n  end_ms: 165400\n- text: Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  start_ms: 165400\n  end_ms: 168280\n- text: And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n  start_ms: 168280\n  end_ms: 172570\n- text: I need 18 points on my next joint\n  start_ms: 172570\n  end_ms: 174520\n- text: This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  start_ms: 174520\n  end_ms: 178030\n- text: Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n  start_ms: 178030\n  end_ms: 180220\n- text: To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  start_ms: 180220\n  end_ms: 183810\n- text: I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n  start_ms: 183810\n  end_ms: 186590\n- text: And built with thousands of scholars\n  start_ms: 186590\n  end_ms: 188410\n- text: My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  start_ms: 188410\n  end_ms: 190630\n- text: Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n  start_ms: 190630\n  end_ms: 192370\n- text: I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n  start_ms: 192370\n  end_ms: 195150\n- text: We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  start_ms: 195150\n  end_ms: 197620\n- text: And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  start_ms: 197620\n  end_ms: 200320\n- text: Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n  start_ms: 200320\n  end_ms: 203680\n- text: But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n  start_ms: 203680\n  end_ms: 206290\n- text: Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n  start_ms: 206290\n  end_ms: 209300\n- text: Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n  start_ms: 209300\n  end_ms: 211830\n- text: This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n  start_ms: 211830\n  end_ms: 215760\n- text: Collectin' minds at the door\n  start_ms: 215760\n  end_ms: 217260\n- text: You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n  start_ms: 217260\n  end_ms: 219990\n- text: What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n  start_ms: 219990\n  end_ms: 223020\n- text: Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n  start_ms: 223020\n  end_ms: 226280\n- text: We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n  start_ms: 226280\n  end_ms: 228680\n- text: Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n  start_ms: 228680\n  end_ms: 231360\n- text: Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  start_ms: 231360\n  end_ms: 234230\n- text: Bring it to 'em, room service\n  start_ms: 234230\n  end_ms: 235930\n- text: Under pressure and mad nervy\n  start_ms: 235930\n  end_ms: 238040\n- text: Wavin' guns at the clergy\n  start_ms: 238040\n  end_ms: 239770\n- text: Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  start_ms: 239770\n  end_ms: 241450\n- text: Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n  start_ms: 241450\n  end_ms: 243690\n- text: Picture this, watch the birdie\n  start_ms: 243690\n  end_ms: 245280\n- text: These bastards is old and dirty\n  start_ms: 245280\n  end_ms: 247030\n- text: With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n  start_ms: 247030\n  end_ms: 248960\n- text: Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  start_ms: 248960\n  end_ms: 250900\n- text: '''Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'''\n  start_ms: 250900\n  end_ms: 253570\n- text: As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n  start_ms: 253570\n  end_ms: 256280\n- text: Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n  start_ms: 256280\n  end_ms: 259210\n- text: Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n  start_ms: 259210\n  end_ms: 262070\n- text: That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  start_ms: 262070\n  end_ms: 265200\n- text: Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  start_ms: 265200\n  end_ms: 267260\n- text: Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n  start_ms: 267260\n  end_ms: 270850\n- text: Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n  start_ms: 270850\n  end_ms: 273450\n- text: Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  start_ms: 273450\n  end_ms: 276670\n- text: Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n  start_ms: 276670\n  end_ms: 278480\n- text: You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n  start_ms: 278480\n  end_ms: 282340\n- text: Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  start_ms: 282340\n  end_ms: 284470\n- text: Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  start_ms: 284470\n  end_ms: 286370\n- text: Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n  start_ms: 286370\n  end_ms: 289780\n- text: We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n  start_ms: 289780\n  end_ms: 292930\n- text: Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n  start_ms: 292930\n  end_ms: 295930\n- text: Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  start_ms: 295930\n  end_ms: 297980\n- text: James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  start_ms: 297980\n  end_ms: 300560\n- text: Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  start_ms: 300560\n  end_ms: 302720\n- text: He caught a slug for lying\n  start_ms: 302720\n  end_ms: 304280\n- text: Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n  start_ms: 304280\n  end_ms: 306420\n- text: Militia, rollin' in position\n  start_ms: 306420\n  end_ms: 308660\n- text: Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n  start_ms: 308660\n  end_ms: 310600\n- text: Lex retali' back whistling\n  start_ms: 310600\n  end_ms: 313270\n- text: Fake fucks\n  start_ms: 313270\n  end_ms: 325540\n- text: How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n  start_ms: 325540\n  end_ms: 328460\n- text: For that you're gonna die\n  start_ms: 328460\n  end_ms: 330060\n- text: I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n  start_ms: 330060\n  end_ms: 334910\n- text: Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n  start_ms: 334910\n  end_ms: 338990\n- text: There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n  start_ms: 338990\n  end_ms: 342430\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":19551675,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":315.987021,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 315987\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":19775469,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":316.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 316000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":20314050,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":315.987021,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 315987\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":21747624,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":344.52,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 344520\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":10259146,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.94] We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n[00:04.54] When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n[00:08.98] And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n[00:13.44] Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n[00:17.91] Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n[00:22.07] My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n[00:25.02] Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n[00:27.72] What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n[00:29.74] Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n[00:33.26] Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n[00:35.97] How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n[00:39.19] Now my proposal rips the global\n[00:40.99] From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n[00:44.62] Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n[00:47.92] Shorty called me Santa in December\n[00:50.08] But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n[00:52.48] Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n[00:55.60] We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n[00:59.20] Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n[01:01.16] Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n[01:04.33] We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n[01:06.96] Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n[01:10.12] Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n[01:12.55] Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n[01:14.85] You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n[01:18.08] Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n[01:20.67] Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n[01:23.76] Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n[01:27.07] Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n[01:29.56] You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n[01:32.52] Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n[01:35.11] Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n[01:37.15] But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n[01:40.44] Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n[01:42.88] So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n[01:47.75] Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n[01:49.69] We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n[01:50.82] You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n[01:54.18] I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n[01:57.23] No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n[01:59.58] When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n[02:02.65] It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n[02:05.23] Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n[02:07.97] Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n[02:10.77] Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n[02:13.15] Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n[02:15.36] Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n[02:16.96] \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"\n[02:19.36] You fall like autumn leaves\n[02:20.67] You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n[02:24.42] Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n[02:26.49] Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n[02:28.73] Ancient poems of poetry\n[02:30.25] Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n[02:32.24] Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n[02:34.48] With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n[02:37.14] Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n[02:40.32] I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n[02:42.64] Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n[02:45.40] Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n[02:48.28] And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n[02:52.57] I need 18 points on my next joint\n[02:54.52] This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n[02:58.03] Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n[03:00.22] To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n[03:03.81] I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n[03:06.59] And built with thousands of scholars\n[03:08.41] My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n[03:10.63] Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n[03:12.37] I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n[03:15.15] We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n[03:17.62] And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n[03:20.32] Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n[03:23.68] But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n[03:26.29] Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n[03:29.30] Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n[03:31.83] This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n[03:35.76] Collectin' minds at the door\n[03:37.26] You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n[03:39.99] What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n[03:43.02] Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n[03:46.28] We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n[03:48.68] Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n[03:51.36] Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n[03:54.23] Bring it to 'em, room service\n[03:55.93] Under pressure and mad nervy\n[03:58.04] Wavin' guns at the clergy\n[03:59.77] Ticallion, we ain't worried\n[04:01.45] Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n[04:03.69] Picture this, watch the birdie\n[04:05.28] These bastards is old and dirty\n[04:07.03] With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n[04:08.96] Pins and needles, needles and pins\n[04:10.90] 'Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n[04:13.57] As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n[04:16.28] Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n[04:19.21] Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n[04:22.07] That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n[04:25.20] Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n[04:27.26] Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n[04:30.85] Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n[04:33.45] Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n[04:36.67] Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n[04:38.48] You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n[04:42.34] Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n[04:44.47] Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n[04:46.37] Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n[04:49.78] We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n[04:52.93] Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n[04:55.93] Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n[04:57.98] James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n[05:00.56] Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n[05:02.72] He caught a slug for lying\n[05:04.28] Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n[05:06.42] Militia, rollin' in position\n[05:08.66] Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n[05:10.60] Lex retali' back whistling\n[05:13.27] Fake fucks\n[05:25.54] How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n[05:28.46] For that you're gonna die\n[05:30.06] I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n[05:34.91] Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n[05:38.99] There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n[05:42.43] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n  start_ms: 940\n  end_ms: 4540\n- text: When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n  start_ms: 4540\n  end_ms: 8980\n- text: And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n  start_ms: 8980\n  end_ms: 13440\n- text: Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n  start_ms: 13440\n  end_ms: 17910\n- text: Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n  start_ms: 17910\n  end_ms: 22070\n- text: My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  start_ms: 22070\n  end_ms: 25020\n- text: Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n  start_ms: 25020\n  end_ms: 27720\n- text: What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n  start_ms: 27720\n  end_ms: 29740\n- text: Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n  start_ms: 29740\n  end_ms: 33260\n- text: Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n  start_ms: 33260\n  end_ms: 35970\n- text: How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n  start_ms: 35970\n  end_ms: 39190\n- text: Now my proposal rips the global\n  start_ms: 39190\n  end_ms: 40990\n- text: From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n  start_ms: 40990\n  end_ms: 44620\n- text: Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n  start_ms: 44620\n  end_ms: 47920\n- text: Shorty called me Santa in December\n  start_ms: 47920\n  end_ms: 50080\n- text: But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n  start_ms: 50080\n  end_ms: 52480\n- text: Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  start_ms: 52480\n  end_ms: 55600\n- text: We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n  start_ms: 55600\n  end_ms: 59200\n- text: Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  start_ms: 59200\n  end_ms: 61160\n- text: Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n  start_ms: 61160\n  end_ms: 64330\n- text: We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n  start_ms: 64330\n  end_ms: 66960\n- text: Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n  start_ms: 66960\n  end_ms: 70120\n- text: Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  start_ms: 70120\n  end_ms: 72550\n- text: Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n  start_ms: 72550\n  end_ms: 74850\n- text: You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  start_ms: 74850\n  end_ms: 78080\n- text: Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n  start_ms: 78080\n  end_ms: 80670\n- text: Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  start_ms: 80670\n  end_ms: 83760\n- text: Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  start_ms: 83760\n  end_ms: 87070\n- text: Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n  start_ms: 87070\n  end_ms: 89560\n- text: You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n  start_ms: 89560\n  end_ms: 92520\n- text: Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  start_ms: 92520\n  end_ms: 95110\n- text: Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  start_ms: 95110\n  end_ms: 97150\n- text: But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n  start_ms: 97150\n  end_ms: 100440\n- text: Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  start_ms: 100440\n  end_ms: 102880\n- text: So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n  start_ms: 102880\n  end_ms: 107750\n- text: Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n  start_ms: 107750\n  end_ms: 109690\n- text: We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n  start_ms: 109690\n  end_ms: 110820\n- text: You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n  start_ms: 110820\n  end_ms: 114180\n- text: I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  start_ms: 114180\n  end_ms: 117230\n- text: No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  start_ms: 117230\n  end_ms: 119580\n- text: When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n  start_ms: 119580\n  end_ms: 122650\n- text: It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n  start_ms: 122650\n  end_ms: 125230\n- text: Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n  start_ms: 125230\n  end_ms: 127970\n- text: Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n  start_ms: 127970\n  end_ms: 130770\n- text: Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  start_ms: 130770\n  end_ms: 133150\n- text: Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  start_ms: 133150\n  end_ms: 135360\n- text: Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n  start_ms: 135360\n  end_ms: 136960\n- text: '\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"'\n  start_ms: 136960\n  end_ms: 139360\n- text: You fall like autumn leaves\n  start_ms: 139360\n  end_ms: 140670\n- text: You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n  start_ms: 140670\n  end_ms: 144420\n- text: Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  start_ms: 144420\n  end_ms: 146490\n- text: Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  start_ms: 146490\n  end_ms: 148730\n- text: Ancient poems of poetry\n  start_ms: 148730\n  end_ms: 150250\n- text: Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n  start_ms: 150250\n  end_ms: 152240\n- text: Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n  start_ms: 152240\n  end_ms: 154480\n- text: With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n  start_ms: 154480\n  end_ms: 157140\n- text: Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n  start_ms: 157140\n  end_ms: 160320\n- text: I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n  start_ms: 160320\n  end_ms: 162640\n- text: Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  start_ms: 162640\n  end_ms: 165400\n- text: Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  start_ms: 165400\n  end_ms: 168280\n- text: And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n  start_ms: 168280\n  end_ms: 172570\n- text: I need 18 points on my next joint\n  start_ms: 172570\n  end_ms: 174520\n- text: This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  start_ms: 174520\n  end_ms: 178030\n- text: Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n  start_ms: 178030\n  end_ms: 180220\n- text: To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  start_ms: 180220\n  end_ms: 183810\n- text: I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n  start_ms: 183810\n  end_ms: 186590\n- text: And built with thousands of scholars\n  start_ms: 186590\n  end_ms: 188410\n- text: My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  start_ms: 188410\n  end_ms: 190630\n- text: Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n  start_ms: 190630\n  end_ms: 192370\n- text: I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n  start_ms: 192370\n  end_ms: 195150\n- text: We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  start_ms: 195150\n  end_ms: 197620\n- text: And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  start_ms: 197620\n  end_ms: 200320\n- text: Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n  start_ms: 200320\n  end_ms: 203680\n- text: But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n  start_ms: 203680\n  end_ms: 206290\n- text: Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n  start_ms: 206290\n  end_ms: 209300\n- text: Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n  start_ms: 209300\n  end_ms: 211830\n- text: This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n  start_ms: 211830\n  end_ms: 215760\n- text: Collectin' minds at the door\n  start_ms: 215760\n  end_ms: 217260\n- text: You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n  start_ms: 217260\n  end_ms: 219990\n- text: What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n  start_ms: 219990\n  end_ms: 223020\n- text: Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n  start_ms: 223020\n  end_ms: 226280\n- text: We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n  start_ms: 226280\n  end_ms: 228680\n- text: Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n  start_ms: 228680\n  end_ms: 231360\n- text: Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  start_ms: 231360\n  end_ms: 234230\n- text: Bring it to 'em, room service\n  start_ms: 234230\n  end_ms: 235930\n- text: Under pressure and mad nervy\n  start_ms: 235930\n  end_ms: 238040\n- text: Wavin' guns at the clergy\n  start_ms: 238040\n  end_ms: 239770\n- text: Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  start_ms: 239770\n  end_ms: 241450\n- text: Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n  start_ms: 241450\n  end_ms: 243690\n- text: Picture this, watch the birdie\n  start_ms: 243690\n  end_ms: 245280\n- text: These bastards is old and dirty\n  start_ms: 245280\n  end_ms: 247030\n- text: With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n  start_ms: 247030\n  end_ms: 248960\n- text: Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  start_ms: 248960\n  end_ms: 250900\n- text: '''Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'''\n  start_ms: 250900\n  end_ms: 253570\n- text: As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n  start_ms: 253570\n  end_ms: 256280\n- text: Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n  start_ms: 256280\n  end_ms: 259210\n- text: Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n  start_ms: 259210\n  end_ms: 262070\n- text: That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  start_ms: 262070\n  end_ms: 265200\n- text: Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  start_ms: 265200\n  end_ms: 267260\n- text: Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n  start_ms: 267260\n  end_ms: 270850\n- text: Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n  start_ms: 270850\n  end_ms: 273450\n- text: Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  start_ms: 273450\n  end_ms: 276670\n- text: Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n  start_ms: 276670\n  end_ms: 278480\n- text: You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n  start_ms: 278480\n  end_ms: 282340\n- text: Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  start_ms: 282340\n  end_ms: 284470\n- text: Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  start_ms: 284470\n  end_ms: 286370\n- text: Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n  start_ms: 286370\n  end_ms: 289780\n- text: We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n  start_ms: 289780\n  end_ms: 292930\n- text: Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n  start_ms: 292930\n  end_ms: 295930\n- text: Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  start_ms: 295930\n  end_ms: 297980\n- text: James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  start_ms: 297980\n  end_ms: 300560\n- text: Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  start_ms: 300560\n  end_ms: 302720\n- text: He caught a slug for lying\n  start_ms: 302720\n  end_ms: 304280\n- text: Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n  start_ms: 304280\n  end_ms: 306420\n- text: Militia, rollin' in position\n  start_ms: 306420\n  end_ms: 308660\n- text: Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n  start_ms: 308660\n  end_ms: 310600\n- text: Lex retali' back whistling\n  start_ms: 310600\n  end_ms: 313270\n- text: Fake fucks\n  start_ms: 313270\n  end_ms: 325540\n- text: How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n  start_ms: 325540\n  end_ms: 328460\n- text: For that you're gonna die\n  start_ms: 328460\n  end_ms: 330060\n- text: I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n  start_ms: 330060\n  end_ms: 334910\n- text: Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n  start_ms: 334910\n  end_ms: 338990\n- text: There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n  start_ms: 338990\n  end_ms: 342430\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":26715621,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang ForeverII","duration":342.447187,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang ForeverII\n  duration_ms: 342447\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":27269544,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":315.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 315000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":5372041,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (Explicit)","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Scrape y'all motherfuckers\nThis is my word, when you see us\nWhen you see us flashing and shining\nAnd building and adding on\nY'all niggaz just watch it, hear me\nOnly ones that who we got respect for\nIs them niggaz that we say peace to\nHear me, pay attention, put your shoes on\nYo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggaz on the swarm again\nPirahna niggaz bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure God, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal, rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God, so taste the soulful\nRemember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed what, blast enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMizola rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians\nLa costra nostra, we moving through your hood like we supposed ta\n(Flex this) Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggaz built your rhyme from my sess tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than a dobo\nStay militant kid, push it like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearing it\nFace one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggaz money getting low\nBut did you come back, set up shop, and get the phat dough\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, blinking with us or put your shield down\nFaggot, fuck fuck around punk, (7: 15) we battle for cream nigga\n\n(RZA)\nYou want to pound crab, nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nothing changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nGet virgin and perversions, fucking bitches with Persian\nBugs watching niggaz like the turgeon, it's the surgeon slugs\nStill pounds when Bobby Steels 12 gauge gonna pay deadly chronicles\nWe, held up in Gotham take heed and protect your seeds\nWe fall like all the leaves, who lack tranquility\nIn your rap utility to fuck with the abilities\nRaised like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAge of poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimbaland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary...\nI need 18 points for my next joint\nThis high anointed king, to make a deal\nI be the one to appoint, Steve Ripken must have been sniffing\nTo catch something so dope, it left Monica Lynch's pussy dripping\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, theives and bank robbers\nWe drove with pistol whips into world-wide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nStand to tell the contestants, in the world's best repressment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n\n(Method Man)\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggaz it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggaz is foul in this duck season\nWe add odds till we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervous, waving guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggaz seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThis bastards is rolling dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth\nLike pimp was bled, as I race track with thoroughbreds\nDucking the feds\n\n(Raekwon the Chef)\nYo, my ice slow fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggaz ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggaz like weight\nFeed a fool, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science of mine\nProduction, ya'll niggas guess who stuck son\nLeft his nuts son, switch, finger itch\nStaring at you like a bitch, maybe y'all niggaz snitch\nYou'se a loner, Adidas shell top while I...\nSipping na, read the rev report then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot neccessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggaz know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me, on Bacardi Lime and\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lying\nYeah you was lying, where's the cash, crying\nMilitia, rolling in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex the tally back whistling, fake fucks","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.94] We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n[00:04.54] When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n[00:08.98] And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n[00:13.44] Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n[00:17.91] Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n[00:22.07] My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n[00:25.02] Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n[00:27.72] What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n[00:29.74] Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n[00:33.26] Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n[00:35.97] How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n[00:39.19] Now my proposal rips the global\n[00:40.99] From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n[00:44.62] Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n[00:47.92] Shorty called me Santa in December\n[00:50.08] But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n[00:52.48] Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n[00:55.60] We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n[00:59.20] Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n[01:01.16] Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n[01:04.33] We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n[01:06.96] Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n[01:10.12] Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n[01:12.55] Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n[01:14.85] You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n[01:18.08] Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n[01:20.67] Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n[01:23.76] Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n[01:27.07] Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n[01:29.56] You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n[01:32.52] Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n[01:35.11] Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n[01:37.15] But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n[01:40.44] Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n[01:42.88] So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n[01:47.75] Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n[01:49.69] We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n[01:50.82] You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n[01:54.18] I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n[01:57.23] No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n[01:59.58] When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n[02:02.65] It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n[02:05.23] Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n[02:07.97] Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n[02:10.77] Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n[02:13.15] Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n[02:15.36] Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n[02:16.96] \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"\n[02:19.36] You fall like autumn leaves\n[02:20.67] You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n[02:24.42] Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n[02:26.49] Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n[02:28.73] Ancient poems of poetry\n[02:30.25] Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n[02:32.24] Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n[02:34.48] With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n[02:37.14] Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n[02:40.32] I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n[02:42.64] Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n[02:45.40] Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n[02:48.28] And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n[02:52.57] I need 18 points on my next joint\n[02:54.52] This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n[02:58.03] Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n[03:00.22] To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n[03:03.81] I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n[03:06.59] And built with thousands of scholars\n[03:08.41] My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n[03:10.63] Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n[03:12.37] I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n[03:15.15] We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n[03:17.62] And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n[03:20.32] Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n[03:23.68] But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n[03:26.29] Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n[03:29.30] Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n[03:31.83] This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n[03:35.76] Collectin' minds at the door\n[03:37.26] You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n[03:39.99] What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n[03:43.02] Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n[03:46.28] We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n[03:48.68] Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n[03:51.36] Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n[03:54.23] Bring it to 'em, room service\n[03:55.93] Under pressure and mad nervy\n[03:58.04] Wavin' guns at the clergy\n[03:59.77] Ticallion, we ain't worried\n[04:01.45] Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n[04:03.69] Picture this, watch the birdie\n[04:05.28] These bastards is old and dirty\n[04:07.03] With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n[04:08.96] Pins and needles, needles and pins\n[04:10.90] 'Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n[04:13.57] As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n[04:16.28] Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n[04:19.21] Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n[04:22.07] That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n[04:25.20] Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n[04:27.26] Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n[04:30.85] Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n[04:33.45] Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n[04:36.67] Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n[04:38.48] You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n[04:42.34] Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n[04:44.47] Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n[04:46.37] Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n[04:49.78] We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n[04:52.93] Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n[04:55.93] Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n[04:57.98] James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n[05:00.56] Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n[05:02.72] He caught a slug for lying\n[05:04.28] Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n[05:06.42] Militia, rollin' in position\n[05:08.66] Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n[05:10.60] Lex retali' back whistling\n[05:13.27] Fake fucks\n[05:25.54] How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n[05:28.46] For that you're gonna die\n[05:30.06] I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n[05:34.91] Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n[05:38.99] There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n[05:42.43] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (Explicit)\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n  start_ms: 940\n  end_ms: 4540\n- text: When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n  start_ms: 4540\n  end_ms: 8980\n- text: And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n  start_ms: 8980\n  end_ms: 13440\n- text: Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n  start_ms: 13440\n  end_ms: 17910\n- text: Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n  start_ms: 17910\n  end_ms: 22070\n- text: My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  start_ms: 22070\n  end_ms: 25020\n- text: Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n  start_ms: 25020\n  end_ms: 27720\n- text: What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n  start_ms: 27720\n  end_ms: 29740\n- text: Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n  start_ms: 29740\n  end_ms: 33260\n- text: Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n  start_ms: 33260\n  end_ms: 35970\n- text: How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n  start_ms: 35970\n  end_ms: 39190\n- text: Now my proposal rips the global\n  start_ms: 39190\n  end_ms: 40990\n- text: From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n  start_ms: 40990\n  end_ms: 44620\n- text: Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n  start_ms: 44620\n  end_ms: 47920\n- text: Shorty called me Santa in December\n  start_ms: 47920\n  end_ms: 50080\n- text: But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n  start_ms: 50080\n  end_ms: 52480\n- text: Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  start_ms: 52480\n  end_ms: 55600\n- text: We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n  start_ms: 55600\n  end_ms: 59200\n- text: Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  start_ms: 59200\n  end_ms: 61160\n- text: Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n  start_ms: 61160\n  end_ms: 64330\n- text: We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n  start_ms: 64330\n  end_ms: 66960\n- text: Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n  start_ms: 66960\n  end_ms: 70120\n- text: Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  start_ms: 70120\n  end_ms: 72550\n- text: Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n  start_ms: 72550\n  end_ms: 74850\n- text: You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  start_ms: 74850\n  end_ms: 78080\n- text: Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n  start_ms: 78080\n  end_ms: 80670\n- text: Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  start_ms: 80670\n  end_ms: 83760\n- text: Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  start_ms: 83760\n  end_ms: 87070\n- text: Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n  start_ms: 87070\n  end_ms: 89560\n- text: You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n  start_ms: 89560\n  end_ms: 92520\n- text: Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  start_ms: 92520\n  end_ms: 95110\n- text: Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  start_ms: 95110\n  end_ms: 97150\n- text: But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n  start_ms: 97150\n  end_ms: 100440\n- text: Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  start_ms: 100440\n  end_ms: 102880\n- text: So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n  start_ms: 102880\n  end_ms: 107750\n- text: Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n  start_ms: 107750\n  end_ms: 109690\n- text: We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n  start_ms: 109690\n  end_ms: 110820\n- text: You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n  start_ms: 110820\n  end_ms: 114180\n- text: I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  start_ms: 114180\n  end_ms: 117230\n- text: No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  start_ms: 117230\n  end_ms: 119580\n- text: When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n  start_ms: 119580\n  end_ms: 122650\n- text: It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n  start_ms: 122650\n  end_ms: 125230\n- text: Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n  start_ms: 125230\n  end_ms: 127970\n- text: Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n  start_ms: 127970\n  end_ms: 130770\n- text: Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  start_ms: 130770\n  end_ms: 133150\n- text: Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  start_ms: 133150\n  end_ms: 135360\n- text: Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n  start_ms: 135360\n  end_ms: 136960\n- text: '\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"'\n  start_ms: 136960\n  end_ms: 139360\n- text: You fall like autumn leaves\n  start_ms: 139360\n  end_ms: 140670\n- text: You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n  start_ms: 140670\n  end_ms: 144420\n- text: Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  start_ms: 144420\n  end_ms: 146490\n- text: Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  start_ms: 146490\n  end_ms: 148730\n- text: Ancient poems of poetry\n  start_ms: 148730\n  end_ms: 150250\n- text: Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n  start_ms: 150250\n  end_ms: 152240\n- text: Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n  start_ms: 152240\n  end_ms: 154480\n- text: With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n  start_ms: 154480\n  end_ms: 157140\n- text: Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n  start_ms: 157140\n  end_ms: 160320\n- text: I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n  start_ms: 160320\n  end_ms: 162640\n- text: Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  start_ms: 162640\n  end_ms: 165400\n- text: Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  start_ms: 165400\n  end_ms: 168280\n- text: And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n  start_ms: 168280\n  end_ms: 172570\n- text: I need 18 points on my next joint\n  start_ms: 172570\n  end_ms: 174520\n- text: This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  start_ms: 174520\n  end_ms: 178030\n- text: Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n  start_ms: 178030\n  end_ms: 180220\n- text: To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  start_ms: 180220\n  end_ms: 183810\n- text: I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n  start_ms: 183810\n  end_ms: 186590\n- text: And built with thousands of scholars\n  start_ms: 186590\n  end_ms: 188410\n- text: My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  start_ms: 188410\n  end_ms: 190630\n- text: Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n  start_ms: 190630\n  end_ms: 192370\n- text: I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n  start_ms: 192370\n  end_ms: 195150\n- text: We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  start_ms: 195150\n  end_ms: 197620\n- text: And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  start_ms: 197620\n  end_ms: 200320\n- text: Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n  start_ms: 200320\n  end_ms: 203680\n- text: But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n  start_ms: 203680\n  end_ms: 206290\n- text: Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n  start_ms: 206290\n  end_ms: 209300\n- text: Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n  start_ms: 209300\n  end_ms: 211830\n- text: This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n  start_ms: 211830\n  end_ms: 215760\n- text: Collectin' minds at the door\n  start_ms: 215760\n  end_ms: 217260\n- text: You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n  start_ms: 217260\n  end_ms: 219990\n- text: What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n  start_ms: 219990\n  end_ms: 223020\n- text: Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n  start_ms: 223020\n  end_ms: 226280\n- text: We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n  start_ms: 226280\n  end_ms: 228680\n- text: Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n  start_ms: 228680\n  end_ms: 231360\n- text: Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  start_ms: 231360\n  end_ms: 234230\n- text: Bring it to 'em, room service\n  start_ms: 234230\n  end_ms: 235930\n- text: Under pressure and mad nervy\n  start_ms: 235930\n  end_ms: 238040\n- text: Wavin' guns at the clergy\n  start_ms: 238040\n  end_ms: 239770\n- text: Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  start_ms: 239770\n  end_ms: 241450\n- text: Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n  start_ms: 241450\n  end_ms: 243690\n- text: Picture this, watch the birdie\n  start_ms: 243690\n  end_ms: 245280\n- text: These bastards is old and dirty\n  start_ms: 245280\n  end_ms: 247030\n- text: With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n  start_ms: 247030\n  end_ms: 248960\n- text: Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  start_ms: 248960\n  end_ms: 250900\n- text: '''Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'''\n  start_ms: 250900\n  end_ms: 253570\n- text: As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n  start_ms: 253570\n  end_ms: 256280\n- text: Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n  start_ms: 256280\n  end_ms: 259210\n- text: Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n  start_ms: 259210\n  end_ms: 262070\n- text: That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  start_ms: 262070\n  end_ms: 265200\n- text: Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  start_ms: 265200\n  end_ms: 267260\n- text: Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n  start_ms: 267260\n  end_ms: 270850\n- text: Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n  start_ms: 270850\n  end_ms: 273450\n- text: Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  start_ms: 273450\n  end_ms: 276670\n- text: Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n  start_ms: 276670\n  end_ms: 278480\n- text: You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n  start_ms: 278480\n  end_ms: 282340\n- text: Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  start_ms: 282340\n  end_ms: 284470\n- text: Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  start_ms: 284470\n  end_ms: 286370\n- text: Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n  start_ms: 286370\n  end_ms: 289780\n- text: We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n  start_ms: 289780\n  end_ms: 292930\n- text: Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n  start_ms: 292930\n  end_ms: 295930\n- text: Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  start_ms: 295930\n  end_ms: 297980\n- text: James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  start_ms: 297980\n  end_ms: 300560\n- text: Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  start_ms: 300560\n  end_ms: 302720\n- text: He caught a slug for lying\n  start_ms: 302720\n  end_ms: 304280\n- text: Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n  start_ms: 304280\n  end_ms: 306420\n- text: Militia, rollin' in position\n  start_ms: 306420\n  end_ms: 308660\n- text: Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n  start_ms: 308660\n  end_ms: 310600\n- text: Lex retali' back whistling\n  start_ms: 310600\n  end_ms: 313270\n- text: Fake fucks\n  start_ms: 313270\n  end_ms: 325540\n- text: How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n  start_ms: 325540\n  end_ms: 328460\n- text: For that you're gonna die\n  start_ms: 328460\n  end_ms: 330060\n- text: I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n  start_ms: 330060\n  end_ms: 334910\n- text: Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n  start_ms: 334910\n  end_ms: 338990\n- text: There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n  start_ms: 338990\n  end_ms: 342430\nplain: |-\n  Scrape y'all motherfuckers\n  This is my word, when you see us\n  When you see us flashing and shining\n  And building and adding on\n  Y'all niggaz just watch it, hear me\n  Only ones that who we got respect for\n  Is them niggaz that we say peace to\n  Hear me, pay attention, put your shoes on\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggaz on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggaz bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure God, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal, rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God, so taste the soulful\n  Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed what, blast enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  Mizola rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians\n  La costra nostra, we moving through your hood like we supposed ta\n  (Flex this) Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggaz built your rhyme from my sess tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than a dobo\n  Stay militant kid, push it like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearing it\n  Face one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggaz money getting low\n  But did you come back, set up shop, and get the phat dough\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, blinking with us or put your shield down\n  Faggot, fuck fuck around punk, (7: 15) we battle for cream nigga\n\n  (RZA)\n  You want to pound crab, nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nothing changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Get virgin and perversions, fucking bitches with Persian\n  Bugs watching niggaz like the turgeon, it's the surgeon slugs\n  Still pounds when Bobby Steels 12 gauge gonna pay deadly chronicles\n  We, held up in Gotham take heed and protect your seeds\n  We fall like all the leaves, who lack tranquility\n  In your rap utility to fuck with the abilities\n  Raised like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Age of poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timbaland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary...\n  I need 18 points for my next joint\n  This high anointed king, to make a deal\n  I be the one to appoint, Steve Ripken must have been sniffing\n  To catch something so dope, it left Monica Lynch's pussy dripping\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, theives and bank robbers\n  We drove with pistol whips into world-wide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Stand to tell the contestants, in the world's best repressment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n\n  (Method Man)\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggaz it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggaz is foul in this duck season\n  We add odds till we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervous, waving guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggaz seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  This bastards is rolling dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth\n  Like pimp was bled, as I race track with thoroughbreds\n  Ducking the feds\n\n  (Raekwon the Chef)\n  Yo, my ice slow fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggaz ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggaz like weight\n  Feed a fool, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science of mine\n  Production, ya'll niggas guess who stuck son\n  Left his nuts son, switch, finger itch\n  Staring at you like a bitch, maybe y'all niggaz snitch\n  You'se a loner, Adidas shell top while I...\n  Sipping na, read the rev report then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not neccessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggaz know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me, on Bacardi Lime and\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lying\n  Yeah you was lying, where's the cash, crying\n  Militia, rolling in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex the tally back whistling, fake fucks\n"},{"id":6829830,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (Cd2)","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":"[00:00.94] We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n[00:04.54] When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n[00:08.98] And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n[00:13.44] Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n[00:17.91] Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n[00:22.07] My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n[00:25.02] Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n[00:27.72] What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n[00:29.74] Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n[00:33.26] Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n[00:35.97] How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n[00:39.19] Now my proposal rips the global\n[00:40.99] From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n[00:44.62] Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n[00:47.92] Shorty called me Santa in December\n[00:50.08] But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n[00:52.48] Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n[00:55.60] We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n[00:59.20] Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n[01:01.16] Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n[01:04.33] We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n[01:06.96] Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n[01:10.12] Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n[01:12.55] Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n[01:14.85] You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n[01:18.08] Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n[01:20.67] Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n[01:23.76] Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n[01:27.07] Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n[01:29.56] You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n[01:32.52] Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n[01:35.11] Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n[01:37.15] But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n[01:40.44] Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n[01:42.88] So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n[01:47.75] Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n[01:49.69] We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n[01:50.82] You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n[01:54.18] I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n[01:57.23] No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n[01:59.58] When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n[02:02.65] It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n[02:05.23] Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n[02:07.97] Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n[02:10.77] Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n[02:13.15] Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n[02:15.36] Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n[02:16.96] \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"\n[02:19.36] You fall like autumn leaves\n[02:20.67] You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n[02:24.42] Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n[02:26.49] Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n[02:28.73] Ancient poems of poetry\n[02:30.25] Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n[02:32.24] Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n[02:34.48] With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n[02:37.14] Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n[02:40.32] I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n[02:42.64] Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n[02:45.40] Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n[02:48.28] And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n[02:52.57] I need 18 points on my next joint\n[02:54.52] This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n[02:58.03] Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n[03:00.22] To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n[03:03.81] I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n[03:06.59] And built with thousands of scholars\n[03:08.41] My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n[03:10.63] Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n[03:12.37] I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n[03:15.15] We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n[03:17.62] And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n[03:20.32] Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n[03:23.68] But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n[03:26.29] Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n[03:29.30] Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n[03:31.83] This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n[03:35.76] Collectin' minds at the door\n[03:37.26] You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n[03:39.99] What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n[03:43.02] Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n[03:46.28] We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n[03:48.68] Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n[03:51.36] Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n[03:54.23] Bring it to 'em, room service\n[03:55.93] Under pressure and mad nervy\n[03:58.04] Wavin' guns at the clergy\n[03:59.77] Ticallion, we ain't worried\n[04:01.45] Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n[04:03.69] Picture this, watch the birdie\n[04:05.28] These bastards is old and dirty\n[04:07.03] With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n[04:08.96] Pins and needles, needles and pins\n[04:10.90] 'Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n[04:13.57] As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n[04:16.28] Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n[04:19.21] Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n[04:22.07] That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n[04:25.20] Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n[04:27.26] Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n[04:30.85] Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n[04:33.45] Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n[04:36.67] Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n[04:38.48] You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n[04:42.34] Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n[04:44.47] Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n[04:46.37] Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n[04:49.78] We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n[04:52.93] Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n[04:55.93] Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n[04:57.98] James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n[05:00.56] Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n[05:02.72] He caught a slug for lying\n[05:04.28] Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n[05:06.42] Militia, rollin' in position\n[05:08.66] Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n[05:10.60] Lex retali' back whistling\n[05:13.27] Fake fucks\n[05:25.54] How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n[05:28.46] For that you're gonna die\n[05:30.06] I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n[05:34.91] Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n[05:38.99] There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n[05:42.43] ","lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (Cd2)\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines:\n- text: We scrape y'all motherfuckers, it's my word\n  start_ms: 940\n  end_ms: 4540\n- text: When you see us, when you see us flashin' and shinin' and buildin'\n  start_ms: 4540\n  end_ms: 8980\n- text: And addin' on, y'all niggas just watch, hear me?\n  start_ms: 8980\n  end_ms: 13440\n- text: Only ones who we got respect for is the niggas that we say peace to\n  start_ms: 13440\n  end_ms: 17910\n- text: Hear me? Pay attention, put your shoes on, yo\n  start_ms: 17910\n  end_ms: 22070\n- text: My team be bellyachin', hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  start_ms: 22070\n  end_ms: 25020\n- text: Piranha nigga bite dick, yo, son, it's on again\n  start_ms: 25020\n  end_ms: 27720\n- text: What up? He made a move, try to assist it\n  start_ms: 27720\n  end_ms: 29740\n- text: Listen, kid, yo, you was born to be a pawn, but I'm a bishop\n  start_ms: 29740\n  end_ms: 33260\n- text: Back to the novel, yo, son, it's logical\n  start_ms: 33260\n  end_ms: 35970\n- text: How you figure, God? What? Float on the track, flip the obstacle\n  start_ms: 35970\n  end_ms: 39190\n- text: Now my proposal rips the global\n  start_ms: 39190\n  end_ms: 40990\n- text: From California to courts, it's over, God, told taste the soul food\n  start_ms: 40990\n  end_ms: 44620\n- text: Remember baggy jeans, Timberlands in November\n  start_ms: 44620\n  end_ms: 47920\n- text: Shorty called me Santa in December\n  start_ms: 47920\n  end_ms: 50080\n- text: But guess what? My Wallys got messed up\n  start_ms: 50080\n  end_ms: 52480\n- text: Autograph pressed up, what? Blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  start_ms: 52480\n  end_ms: 55600\n- text: We scrape that, Land O' Lake that, mazola rap will get you sent back\n  start_ms: 55600\n  end_ms: 59200\n- text: Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  start_ms: 59200\n  end_ms: 61160\n- text: Flash medallions like Italians, La Costra Nostra\n  start_ms: 61160\n  end_ms: 64330\n- text: We movin' through your hood like we supposed to, flexin'\n  start_ms: 64330\n  end_ms: 66960\n- text: Lexi Diamonds hold the settlement, Tekitha, bust your gun, boo\n  start_ms: 66960\n  end_ms: 70120\n- text: Like that badass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  start_ms: 70120\n  end_ms: 72550\n- text: Ad on the billboard store, check it now\n  start_ms: 72550\n  end_ms: 74850\n- text: You get the gold dick award, it's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  start_ms: 74850\n  end_ms: 78080\n- text: Test me, floatin' in the S.E., now, let's see\n  start_ms: 78080\n  end_ms: 80670\n- text: Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  start_ms: 80670\n  end_ms: 83760\n- text: Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  start_ms: 83760\n  end_ms: 87070\n- text: Stay militant, kid, twist ya like Bolo\n  start_ms: 87070\n  end_ms: 89560\n- text: You fuckin' idiot, playin' with my Clan, but you be fearin' it\n  start_ms: 89560\n  end_ms: 92520\n- text: Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  start_ms: 92520\n  end_ms: 95110\n- text: Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  start_ms: 95110\n  end_ms: 97150\n- text: But could you come back, though, set up shop and get the fat glow?\n  start_ms: 97150\n  end_ms: 100440\n- text: Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  start_ms: 100440\n  end_ms: 102880\n- text: So what the deal now? Link up with us or put your shield down, faggot\n  start_ms: 102880\n  end_ms: 107750\n- text: Fuck around, punk (7-15)\n  start_ms: 107750\n  end_ms: 109690\n- text: We battle for cream, nigga (yo)\n  start_ms: 109690\n  end_ms: 110820\n- text: You want a pound, crab? Nah, let his hand swing\n  start_ms: 110820\n  end_ms: 114180\n- text: I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  start_ms: 114180\n  end_ms: 117230\n- text: No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  start_ms: 117230\n  end_ms: 119580\n- text: When I saw the .44 reflectin' off your shiny forehead\n  start_ms: 119580\n  end_ms: 122650\n- text: It's Wu-Tang, nigga, ain't nothing changed, nigga\n  start_ms: 122650\n  end_ms: 125230\n- text: Still, shame on a nigga who tried to run game\n  start_ms: 125230\n  end_ms: 127970\n- text: Your version of perversion, fuckin' bitches on Persian rugs\n  start_ms: 127970\n  end_ms: 130770\n- text: Washin' niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  start_ms: 130770\n  end_ms: 133150\n- text: Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  start_ms: 133150\n  end_ms: 135360\n- text: Front page Daily Chronicle reads\n  start_ms: 135360\n  end_ms: 136960\n- text: '\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect your seeds\"'\n  start_ms: 136960\n  end_ms: 139360\n- text: You fall like autumn leaves\n  start_ms: 139360\n  end_ms: 140670\n- text: You lack tranquility in your rap utilities to fuck with the abilities\n  start_ms: 140670\n  end_ms: 144420\n- text: Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  start_ms: 144420\n  end_ms: 146490\n- text: Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  start_ms: 146490\n  end_ms: 148730\n- text: Ancient poems of poetry\n  start_ms: 148730\n  end_ms: 150250\n- text: Old scrolls, explosive head bullets\n  start_ms: 150250\n  end_ms: 152240\n- text: Black hooded, Timberland-footed ninjas\n  start_ms: 152240\n  end_ms: 154480\n- text: With full metal jacket clips and know how to put it in you\n  start_ms: 154480\n  end_ms: 157140\n- text: Surrender your goods and your merchandise for no purchase price\n  start_ms: 157140\n  end_ms: 160320\n- text: I'm certainly a heist for your ice is curtains, advice\n  start_ms: 160320\n  end_ms: 162640\n- text: Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  start_ms: 162640\n  end_ms: 165400\n- text: Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  start_ms: 165400\n  end_ms: 168280\n- text: And lead them to defy me, diary, ya irie?\n  start_ms: 168280\n  end_ms: 172570\n- text: I need 18 points on my next joint\n  start_ms: 172570\n  end_ms: 174520\n- text: This high anointed king to make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  start_ms: 174520\n  end_ms: 178030\n- text: Steve Rifkind must've been sniffin'\n  start_ms: 178030\n  end_ms: 180220\n- text: To catch somethin' so dope it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  start_ms: 180220\n  end_ms: 183810\n- text: I fuck hundreds of bitches and spent millions of dollars\n  start_ms: 183810\n  end_ms: 186590\n- text: And built with thousands of scholars\n  start_ms: 186590\n  end_ms: 188410\n- text: My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  start_ms: 188410\n  end_ms: 190630\n- text: Legal 'caine grind like Nicaragua\n  start_ms: 190630\n  end_ms: 192370\n- text: I gave birth to MCs, thieves, and bank robbers\n  start_ms: 192370\n  end_ms: 195150\n- text: We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  start_ms: 195150\n  end_ms: 197620\n- text: And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  start_ms: 197620\n  end_ms: 200320\n- text: Fancy delicatessens and the world's best refreshment\n  start_ms: 200320\n  end_ms: 203680\n- text: But none of the above compare to the 120 Lessons\n  start_ms: 203680\n  end_ms: 206290\n- text: Or my queen and my seed and the homes that I rest in\n  start_ms: 206290\n  end_ms: 209300\n- text: Enter my zone, get blown in 99 sections\n  start_ms: 209300\n  end_ms: 211830\n- text: This rhyme has no limitation, this time there's no hesitation\n  start_ms: 211830\n  end_ms: 215760\n- text: Collectin' minds at the door\n  start_ms: 215760\n  end_ms: 217260\n- text: You want it, niggas? It's yours, the flavor's raw\n  start_ms: 217260\n  end_ms: 219990\n- text: What the fuck you think I'm flowin' for? It's rhyme and reason\n  start_ms: 219990\n  end_ms: 223020\n- text: Bite the bullet, niggas is fowl and it's duck season\n  start_ms: 223020\n  end_ms: 226280\n- text: We at odds 'til we even, motherfucker\n  start_ms: 226280\n  end_ms: 228680\n- text: Bad asses, high time, lower classes\n  start_ms: 228680\n  end_ms: 231360\n- text: Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  start_ms: 231360\n  end_ms: 234230\n- text: Bring it to 'em, room service\n  start_ms: 234230\n  end_ms: 235930\n- text: Under pressure and mad nervy\n  start_ms: 235930\n  end_ms: 238040\n- text: Wavin' guns at the clergy\n  start_ms: 238040\n  end_ms: 239770\n- text: Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  start_ms: 239770\n  end_ms: 241450\n- text: Keep them sick niggas 7-30\n  start_ms: 241450\n  end_ms: 243690\n- text: Picture this, watch the birdie\n  start_ms: 243690\n  end_ms: 245280\n- text: These bastards is old and dirty\n  start_ms: 245280\n  end_ms: 247030\n- text: With sharp hymns that be stabbing you\n  start_ms: 247030\n  end_ms: 248960\n- text: Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  start_ms: 248960\n  end_ms: 250900\n- text: '''Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'''\n  start_ms: 250900\n  end_ms: 253570\n- text: As I racetrack with thoroughbreds, duckin' the Feds\n  start_ms: 253570\n  end_ms: 256280\n- text: Yo, my ice look fly upon the keyboard, son\n  start_ms: 256280\n  end_ms: 259210\n- text: Niggas ran up on me, lord, praisin' what we do by the laws\n  start_ms: 259210\n  end_ms: 262070\n- text: That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  start_ms: 262070\n  end_ms: 265200\n- text: Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  start_ms: 265200\n  end_ms: 267260\n- text: Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my production\n  start_ms: 267260\n  end_ms: 270850\n- text: Y'all niggas guess who stuck, son, left his nuts hung\n  start_ms: 270850\n  end_ms: 273450\n- text: Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  start_ms: 273450\n  end_ms: 276670\n- text: Maybe y'all niggas snitch\n  start_ms: 276670\n  end_ms: 278480\n- text: You's a loner, Adidas shell top while I sip a Corona\n  start_ms: 278480\n  end_ms: 282340\n- text: Read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  start_ms: 282340\n  end_ms: 284470\n- text: Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  start_ms: 284470\n  end_ms: 286370\n- text: Not necessarily mean to be rude, boo, check out the analoo\n  start_ms: 286370\n  end_ms: 289780\n- text: We into mushrooms, chase the Heineken, the custom\n  start_ms: 289780\n  end_ms: 292930\n- text: Baggy jeans, thick ropes, god, slidin' through customs\n  start_ms: 292930\n  end_ms: 295930\n- text: Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  start_ms: 295930\n  end_ms: 297980\n- text: James Bond Bimmers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  start_ms: 297980\n  end_ms: 300560\n- text: Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  start_ms: 300560\n  end_ms: 302720\n- text: He caught a slug for lying\n  start_ms: 302720\n  end_ms: 304280\n- text: Yeah, you was lying, where the cash? Crying\n  start_ms: 304280\n  end_ms: 306420\n- text: Militia, rollin' in position\n  start_ms: 306420\n  end_ms: 308660\n- text: Casa Blanca, Cuban link Christian\n  start_ms: 308660\n  end_ms: 310600\n- text: Lex retali' back whistling\n  start_ms: 310600\n  end_ms: 313270\n- text: Fake fucks\n  start_ms: 313270\n  end_ms: 325540\n- text: How dare you rebuild the Wu-Tang Clan against me\n  start_ms: 325540\n  end_ms: 328460\n- text: For that you're gonna die\n  start_ms: 328460\n  end_ms: 330060\n- text: I may not be the one to stop you, but somebody will very soon\n  start_ms: 330060\n  end_ms: 334910\n- text: Also, the Wu-Tang Clan will rise again\n  start_ms: 334910\n  end_ms: 338990\n- text: There are many of us, all working for the good of the Wu-Tang\n  start_ms: 338990\n  end_ms: 342430\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":29513147,"name":"Duck seazon","trackName":"Duck seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever d2","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever d2\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":31907240,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever Disc2","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever Disc2\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":17561666,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (2)","duration":342.439184,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (2)\n  duration_ms: 342439\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":18379856,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (2CD)","duration":342.442375,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (2CD)\n  duration_ms: 342442\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":24119805,"name":"Duck Seazon","trackName":"Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (Cd2)","duration":342.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (Cd2)\n  duration_ms: 342000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"},{"id":25183465,"name":"11 Duck Seazon","trackName":"11 Duck Seazon","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":342.465306,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\nPirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\nWhat up, he made a move, try to assist it\nListen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\nBack to the novel, you Son, it's logical\nHow you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\nNow my proposal rips the global\nFrom California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\nRemember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\nShorty called me Santa in December\nBut guess what, my Wally's got messed up\nAutograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\nWe scrape that, Land O' Lake that\nMy dolo rapper get you sent back\nRepresent the gentlemens who bent that\nFlash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\nWe movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\nLex and Diamonds hold the settlement\nSo keep the bust the gun Boo\nLike that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\nAdd on, the billboard sloan\nCheck it now, you get the gold dick award\nIt's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\nTest me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\nHalf of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\nFaggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\nStay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\nYou fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\nFake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\nPlease, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\nBut could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\nTired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\nSo what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\nFaggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\nWe battle for cream nigga\nYou want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\nI ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\nNo more said, knew your chump ass was dead\nWhen I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\nIt's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\nStill shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\nYour version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\nWashin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\nSlugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\nFront page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n\"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\nYou fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\nIn your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\nRace like a sperm cell to the ovary\nMicrophone post tone like a rotary phone\nAncient poems and poetry, old sloans\nExplosive head bullets, black hooded\nTimberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\nAnd know how to put it in you\nSurrender your goods and your merchandise\nFor no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\nFor your ice and curtains and vice\nCome quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\nBecause of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\nAnd lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\nI need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\nTo make a deal, I be the one to appoint\nSteve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\nTo catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\nI fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\nAnd built with thousands of scholars\nMy life saga from the hill to the harbor\nLegal kid brown in Nicaragua\nGave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\nWe drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\nAnd my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\nFancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\nBut none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\nOr my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\nEnter my zone get blown to 99 sections\nThis rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\nCollecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\nThe flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\nIt's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\nNiggas is foul and it's duck season\nWe at odds 'til we even motherfucker\nBad asses, high times, lower classes\nTaste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\nBring it to him, room service, under pressure\nAnd mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\nTicallion, we ain't worried\nKeep them sick niggas seven-thirty\nPicture this, watch the birdy\nThese bastards is Ol and Dirty\nWith sharp pins that be stabbing you\nPins and needles, needles and pins\nNuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\nAs I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\nYo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\nNiggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\nThat's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\nFeed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\nReconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\nY'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\nSwitch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\nMaybe y'all niggas snitched\nYouse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\nSip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\nBuy you some jewels, here's some food\nNot necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\nWe in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\nBaggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\nChill, y'all niggas know what time it is\nJames Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\nCheck out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\nHe caught a slug for lyin'\nYeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\nMilitia, rollin' in position\nCasa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\nLex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: 11 Duck Seazon\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 342465\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Yo, my team be bellyaching hungry niggas on the swarm again\n  Pirahna niggas bite dick, yo Son, it's on again\n  What up, he made a move, try to assist it\n  Listen kid yo, you was born to be a pawn but I'm a bishop\n  Back to the novel, you Son, it's logical\n  How you figure god, what, flow on the track, flip the obstacle\n  Now my proposal rips the global\n  From California to courts, it's over God so, taste the soul food\n  Remember baggy jeans, the Timberlands in November\n  Shorty called me Santa in December\n  But guess what, my Wally's got messed up\n  Autograph pressed up what, blessed enough to blow your rest up\n  We scrape that, Land O' Lake that\n  My dolo rapper get you sent back\n  Represent the gentlemens who bent that\n  Flash medallions like Italians, la costra nostra\n  We movin through your hood like we supposed ta, flexin'\n  Lex and Diamonds hold the settlement\n  So keep the bust the gun Boo\n  Like that bad ass bitch in Dead Presidents\n  Add on, the billboard sloan\n  Check it now, you get the gold dick award\n  It's like jail, and it's the sixth floor\n  Test me, floating in the S.E., now let's see\n  Half of y'all niggas built your vine from my stress tree\n  Faggots, homos, yo, my flavor liver than adobo\n  Stay militant kid, twist ya like bolo\n  You fucking idiot, playing with my Clan but you be fearin' it\n  Fake one, I'm guaranteed to make you take one\n  Please, y'all niggas money's gettin' low\n  But could you come back though, set up shop, and get the fat glow?\n  Tired of y'all, mostly inspired by y'all\n  So what the deal now, link up with us, or put your shield down\n  Faggot (bitch), you fuck around punk (seven fifteen)\n  We battle for cream nigga\n  You want a pound crab? Nah let his hand swing\n  I ought to punch a hole in his palm with these pointy ass rings\n  No more said, knew your chump ass was dead\n  When I saw the four four reflecting off your shiny forehead\n  It's Wu-Tang nigga, ain't nuttin' changed nigga\n  Still shame on a nigga, who tried to run game\n  Your version of perversion, fuckin bitches on Persian rugs\n  Washin niggas like detergent, it's the surgeon\n  Slugs propels from Bobby Steele's 12 gauge\n  Front page, \"Daily Chronicle\" reads\n  \"Hell up in Gotham, take heed and protect yo' seeds\"\n  You fall like autumn leaves, you lack tranquility\n  In your rap utilities, to fuck with the abilities\n  Race like a sperm cell to the ovary\n  Microphone post tone like a rotary phone\n  Ancient poems and poetry, old sloans\n  Explosive head bullets, black hooded\n  Timberland footed ninjas, who full metal jacket clips\n  And know how to put it in you\n  Surrender your goods and your merchandise\n  For no purchase price, I'm certainly a heist\n  For your ice and curtains and vice\n  Come quietly, Wu-Tang Clan rules society\n  Because of variety, so maintain your high anxiety\n  And lead them to defy me, diary, ya Irie?\n  I need 18 points for my next joint, this high annointed king\n  To make a deal, I be the one to appoint\n  Steve Rifkind must have been sniffin'\n  To catch somethin so dope, it left Monica Lynch pussy drippin'\n  I fuck hundreds of bitches, and split millions of dollars\n  And built with thousands of scholars\n  My life saga from the hill to the harbor\n  Legal kid brown in Nicaragua\n  Gave birth to MC's, thieves and bank robbers\n  We drove expensive whips and took worldwide trips\n  And my dick's been sucked by the finest lips\n  Fancy delicatessens, and the world's best refreshment\n  But none of the above compare to the one-twenty lessons\n  Or my queen and my seeds, in the home that I rest in\n  Enter my zone get blown to 99 sections\n  This rhyme has no limitations, this time there's no hesitation\n  Collecting minds at the door, you want it niggas it's yours\n  The flavors raw, what the fuck you think I'm flowing for\n  It's rhyme and reason, bite the bullet\n  Niggas is foul and it's duck season\n  We at odds 'til we even motherfucker\n  Bad asses, high times, lower classes\n  Taste mine, straight shots in dirty glasses\n  Bring it to him, room service, under pressure\n  And mad nervy, wavin guns at the clergy\n  Ticallion, we ain't worried\n  Keep them sick niggas seven-thirty\n  Picture this, watch the birdy\n  These bastards is Ol and Dirty\n  With sharp pins that be stabbing you\n  Pins and needles, needles and pins\n  Nuff said, dick in your mouth like Tempest Bled'\n  As I race track with thoroughbreds, duckin the feds\n  Yo, my ice look fly up on the keyboard son\n  Niggas ran up on me law, praising what we do by the lords\n  That's right, exile the fake, hit them niggas like weight\n  Feed 'em food, let the fake evaporate\n  Reconstruction, that's the whole science on my, production\n  Y'all niggas guess who stuck son, left his nuts hungs\n  Switch, finger itch, starin' at you like a bitch\n  Maybe y'all niggas snitched\n  Youse a loner, Adidas shell top while I\n  Sip a Corona, read the Robb Report, then bone her\n  Buy you some jewels, here's some food\n  Not necessarily mean to be rude boo, check out the analoo\n  We in the mushrooms, chased the high neck in the custom\n  Baggy jeans, thick ropes god, sliding through customs\n  Chill, y'all niggas know what time it is\n  James Bond Beamers behind me on Bacardi Limon\n  Check out the pitch like Nolan Ryan\n  He caught a slug for lyin'\n  Yeah you was lyin', where's the cash, cryin'\n  Militia, rollin' in position\n  Casa Blanca Cuban Link Christian\n  Lex retali' back whistlin' fake fucks\n"}]