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lyrics

Get together ‘fore I break you
Leggo your facial, blockheads failed outta gradeschool
Big dogs get bit first
My notebook is gorgeous, my chick don’t curse
Even if she did, she’d still be graceful
There’s 9 rappers I actually relate to
The rest are wasting my time
And their cabbage is babbage, a waste of a spine
You should’ve known better, I’m the go-getter
I’m the boss, you’re as soft as an old sweater
In the sun, in the pantry, guns loud as banshees
Kung Pow Comanche, you’re kidding me
You wanna knuckle up, first buckle up
I’m Travis Bickle, shucks I’m fucking nuts
Pacing back and forth in the apartment
For so long, there’s holes in the carpet
That’s nothing to be proud of, like your pedigree
Here’s a Prop Joe ‘cause you’re just dead to me
I got my collar popped like Hells Angels
And you report to Charlie, I’ll just spank you
Getting Big, I’ll just Tom Hanks you
A kid in some adult clothes trying to act grown
Oh no, I’m on the side of the road
Like a third world baby with flies on his nose
And that’s how y’all seen me ‘fore I got here
I see bad actors sitting in 2pac’s chair
On the set of Gridlock’d with Tim Roth
And he don’t fuckin know you, just piss off
I can’t breathe, shit is minimal
Fuck it, I do much more than just rappin
I’m watching sitcoms, and dropping sick bombs
Getting revenge on my bitch from the prom
She said this rapping shit wouldn’t suit me
Now she’s married to a d-bag in a hooptie
YouTube rappers yelling “Just shoot me”
Wearing candy colored hoodies, you tell me who’s fruity?
At times you’ll get lost when I’m spitting this
For god’s sake, show some Dharma intiative
Bad news won’t shake the Bishop
I’m an R&B dude singing “Smack My Bitch Up”
I’m LL writing “Rock the Bells”
I’m Omar buying new shotgun shells
No more comparisons, fuck it’s just Z
Fuck it, it’s just free from 5 O’Clock Shadowboxers
That’s the name we chose, keep starting
I’m right next to mob dudes like Dean Martin
I’m still smiling even when they get you
Fall back, I’ma let the strings hit you

-Break-

So elegant, chandeliers and salad forks-es
I’m a mixtape without the corpses
We dropped one with the Carter on the cover
Not Shawn, not Wayne
I’m Zilla Roc but I don’t rock a chain
I’m crazy like a fox and I’m hot in Spain
Yeah, I was friends with the outcast metal kids
Still a nerd but I knew how to spit
Set the foundation like a new house and shit
I don’t play games I don’t own a Playstation
So focused, don’t bring the noise in
My neighbor had 5 pitbulls, had to poison them
Cold-hearted, no sleep, I can’t even blink
Spit fragments, that’s not how I think
Click massive, Beat Garden, stay clear
I’m on some lion heart shit, no beast so fierce
No beef in here will ever go bad
The real deal, second place you’re a stepdad
All these former friends I step past
Never seen my show, never bought my CD
So fuck you cause I never got a handout
And pardon me if I don’t give you a freebie
This greatness live every weekend
And it’s is a full-time job, stop fakin!
Motherfuckers got nothing to say
Just talk on hot beats and call it a day
If that’s you, don’t walk this way
Cause the dollar store ran outta chalk today, I’m empty
Sweet n low motherfuckers never blow
I pull ‘em off like buttons on a winter coat
You don’t know what tomorrow holds, wake up
I’m the ’85 Bears, I don’t play touch
Hut one, hut two, hunt you
I’m from South Philly, they don’t use kung fu
But I studied martial arts for 5 years
So I don’t need a fuckin gun to fuck you up
Here’s a crumb for the motherfuckin bottom feeders
I feed the bottom like Mother Theresa, see ya!
Sweet Jesus, I’m signing off shorty
Call me when you catch all this shit, I’ll be 40

credits

from The Slow Twilight LP, released June 23, 2009
Beat by Douglas Martin aka Blurry Drones
Lyrics by Zilla Rocca (S.Zales) for Three Dollar Pistol Music (ASCAP)

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Three Dollar Pistol Music Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Zilla Rocca, the bottle breaker, corner store crusher, dime store detective, pulp fiction sage, comic book kingpin, the noir-hop creator.

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