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No Fury (Zilla Rocca Remix)

from Broken Clocks EP by Zilla Rocca & The 5 O'Clock Shadow Boxers



Tell me why I shouldn’t cry
The guy who killed my friend killed himself before I caught him alive
Now that’s unfortunate for both sides
We used to throw paper planes and watch them nosedive
He caught a bad one, his sister just dropped out of school
And caught a fast one, a greyhound running on fumes
I’m fumed though like South Philly’s Vincent Fumo
In my dreams I can’t fight, my arms move slow
You can’t fight what’s coming up next
So I’m hotter than the liquor on your breath, breath
Breathe carefully, don’t share the same air as me
The greenhouse effect and bounced checks only scare me
Not your bullshit, your spine is made of Big League Chew
We used to cop that for 50 cents
That ain’t new, stop that, you’re turning my screws
I want to smash your fucking face but then your face would improve
“Not cool” I know that, my friends might hold that
I might say the word and you might get your vote scratched
But I elect to keep you on the ticket
‘Cause satisfaction comes from watching you living
Badly, you catch me in a donnybrook
I’ll bandage Bruce Banner or Bigelow Bam Bam with bangers
Bad man coming’s, quiet anger
Quite danger-ous to be a hanger-on, all arms get cut-off
That’s you baby, that’s him, that’s her
Bad news baby, and that’s for sure

Look inside my eyes, all fire no fury
My ex-bitch married some douche, no fury
Some asshole hit my car, no fury
He who loses control, loses
Look inside my eyes, all fire no fury
These jerkoffs wanna talk shit, no fury
I’m the designated driver every weekend, no fury
He who loses control, loses

I’m focused on the upper echelon
Rose petals I step on like grown men who sleep with a dress on
This is comedy no more
My man was stop-lossed three times for the same…war
Pardon me for not giving you change
Horribly I look strange, remarkably I’m caged
I want to just scream and flip over tables
Throw me in the slam with Suge, we’ll start a new label
And I’m signing ever fuck-ass who played me light
This ain’t the song, I’ll knock you and still say goodnight
Wild river bank, think tank reminder, I’ll grind ya
Supply you to the crickets and critics will find it pious
Pile on the fucking debt that I kept
Riding home from a session while your bitch ass slept
Boogie man with the buzz cut is waking me up
I see no evil, tape my eyes shut, no fury, I’m nuts

Look inside my eyes, all fire no fury
I can’t catch a break in this town, no fury
This fuckbag owes me two stacks, no fury
He who loses control, loses
Look inside my eyes, all fire no fury
Whatever happened to matinee prices, no fury
I left my fuckin phone in that cab, no fury
He who loses control, loses

Good writers never die, wack rappers do
I chop bad apples into apple pie or apple juice
Half of you won’t be here next year
The other half that does will still pay to enter clubs
And even then, you’ll pay ten bucks for Long Islands
And get no airplay, your song’s too violent
But this ain’t for the ladies sweating on the dancefloor
This is for drunk dude by himself, therefore
I fear no reprocussions over DM’s productions
He plus me equals we be disgusting
I be online with my CD’s hustling
You sell used cars with weak speech stuttering
You’re cumber bunning it, but I’m cool as cucumbers
It’s stunning, the fire in my eyes like a storm cloud thundering
I’m Wonder Boy, the Natural, sparks raining on the field
I can’t lose control with nerves like steel

Look inside my eyes, all fire no fury
Another packed show, no dough, no fury
My favorite Dunks got hit with mud, no fury
He who loses control, loses
Look inside my eyes, all fire no fury
I paid that fucking bill on time, no fury
Another record store closed down, no fury
He who loses control, loses


from Broken Clocks EP, track released March 30, 2010
Written and produced by S. Zales for Three Dollar Pistol Music (ASCAP)


all rights reserved



Three Dollar Pistol Music Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Zilla Rocca: The #1 Bourbon General. The Career Crook. The Future Former Rapper. The owner of Three Dollar Pistol Music. The calm voice amongst the Wrecking Crew. South Philly's finest crime author.

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