[{"id":18132832,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Clan - Wu-Tang Forever (Disc 01)","duration":185.973687,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Clan - Wu-Tang Forever (Disc 01)\n  duration_ms: 185974\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":10718404,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu: The Story of the Wu‐Tang Clan","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: 'Wu: The Story of the Wu‐Tang Clan'\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":9436484,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu: The Story Of The Wu-Tang Clan","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: 'Wu: The Story Of The Wu-Tang Clan'\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":31087498,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"The Story Of The WU Tang Clan","duration":187.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: The Story Of The WU Tang Clan\n  duration_ms: 187000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":1902961,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":28502,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":9288028,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":32108269,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":190.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 190000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":19292417,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":158.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 158000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":24126569,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu‐Tang Forever","duration":257.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu‐Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 257000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":10330225,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":28553801,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu‐Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever","duration":312.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu‐Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever\n  duration_ms: 312000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":27958029,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang ForeverI","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang ForeverI\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":18030136,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (2CD)","duration":185.995025,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (2CD)\n  duration_ms: 185995\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":17424371,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (1)","duration":185.991837,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (1)\n  duration_ms: 185992\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":22208182,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (Explicit)","duration":186.015057,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (Explicit)\n  duration_ms: 186015\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":12636625,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever (CD1)","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever (CD1)\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":27741464,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever Disc1","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever Disc1\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":28359258,"name":"Older Gods","trackName":"Older Gods","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu-Tang Forever d1","duration":186.0,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: Wu-Tang Forever d1\n  duration_ms: 186000\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"},{"id":24663781,"name":"Older Gods (Explicit Version)","trackName":"Older Gods (Explicit Version)","artistName":"Wu-Tang Clan","albumName":"Wu: The Story Of The Wu-Tang Clan","duration":185.906667,"instrumental":false,"hasWordSync":false,"plainLyrics":"Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\nSpitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\nWith springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\nCertain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\nPillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\nCrumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\nGod, the old chain and ball technique, got these\nVegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n18 Bronzeman Part II\nWe like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\nHats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\nI shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\nGot to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\nDraped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n\"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\nThe gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\nSexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\nMight walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\nLighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\nAiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\nNiggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\nE shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\nPulling out old .38s to rob gates\nMajor wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\nBeats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\nHonolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\nAnd dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\nStationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\nJust came home, now they bunked out\nMoney be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\nThat's my word, move it with the burner out\nFidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\nMost of my team, Five Percent\nCheck what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\nYo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\nYo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\nMaintain 360 Lord live prosperous\nIt only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\nOne time in the respectable mind\n\nLet the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\nTire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\nWitness forget his original statement\nEven in protection programs there's no escapement\nGunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\nSpent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\nWounded, back in the '83 summer heat\nUp in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\nI stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\nAll looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\nAnd as they nervously stare, I know they scared\nThey saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\nHousehold name assassin, Killa Bee\nMill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\nQuick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\nThose that got styles, they got identical twins\nDon't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\nWithout skills, they master the art of mimicry\nBut I go line for line on the whole page\nYour unspotted life on the mic is old age","syncedLyrics":null,"lyricsfile":"version: '1.0'\nmetadata:\n  title: Older Gods (Explicit Version)\n  artist: Wu-Tang Clan\n  album: 'Wu: The Story Of The Wu-Tang Clan'\n  duration_ms: 185907\n  instrumental: false\nlines: []\nplain: |-\n  Aiyo I roll like a Bat Out of Hell, evil acapell's fly\n  Spitting out of my grill before I hit the sky\n  With springtime colors, juicy as a Sunkist\n  Certain broads double Dutch this, they carve it in they wrist\n  Pillsbury blazes, straightening combs left on the stove\n  Crumbs in my lady hair, plus yours, the look gold\n  God, the old chain and ball technique, got these\n  Vegetable lasagne niggas in they whips, jumping out they seats\n  18 Bronzeman Part II\n  We like Dorothy Hamill on ice, we in your hood we might circle\n  Hats down low in the Range, switch lanes Change my tire, peel out, real loud on the stage yo\n  I shitted on your hood kid, I shitted on your hood\n  Got to your burner too late, I'm looking real good\n  Draped out, shining like a fresh fifty cent piece\n  \"Yo girlfriend, come here, oh shit, you my man's niece\"\n  The gourmet pocket twenty, bombs made of clay\n  Sexcapades take place, we fucking forty eight shades\n  Might walk up in your studio, time slap your engineer\n  Lighter fluid to DAT style, hand me the matches now\n\n  Aiyo rainbow Roley on the wrist, now what's this\n  Niggas bless this, eight and a half, Bally banana twist\n  E shakes, puffing on lye, feeding the seed's plate\n  Pulling out old .38s to rob gates\n  Major wake up, the kid tell tales, make a nigga head wake up\n  Beats break, the nigga whipped, take off his time\n  Honolulu status, gladdest, the rich rock cabbage\n  And dollar vans grands, that nigga mad savage\n  Stationary Hall of Justice, niggas came clumped out\n  Just came home, now they bunked out\n  Money be longer than triple life, till the Sun burn out\n  That's my word, move it with the burner out\n  Fidel way of thinking, roll with the Mac bent Ac-10\n  Most of my team, Five Percent\n  Check what the live said, rolling with Guess vests pedestrians\n  Yo, holding my nuts, fucking thousand dollar lesbians\n\n  Yo, the Older God put me on to how to rock this\n  Maintain 360 Lord live prosperous\n  It only takes a lesson a day, just to analyze life\n  One time in the respectable mind\n\n  Let the shot spark, soon as his pit bull barks\n  Tire scars from skid marks leaves from jams in school parks\n  Witness forget his original statement\n  Even in protection programs there's no escapement\n  Gunned down, three in town hit king from seven crowns\n  Spent rounds, catch him while he rhyme in the Zebra Lounge\n  Wounded, back in the '83 summer heat\n  Up in 3-0-9 park, rhyming off the drummer's beat\n  I stalk the city streets demonstrating mic wrecks\n  All looking stank, I ain't playing with a full deck\n  And as they nervously stare, I know they scared\n  They saw the coming of Wu in neon in Times Square\n  Household name assassin, Killa Bee\n  Mill to the grain that posess the Wu trilogy\n  Quick to spot those that bite camoflouge and blend\n  Those that got styles, they got identical twins\n  Don't stretch the small thing, copycats are finicky\n  Without skills, they master the art of mimicry\n  But I go line for line on the whole page\n  Your unspotted life on the mic is old age\n"}]