Reminiscing of measuring pots of Pyrex, cook in the kitchen
Captain Hook to these infants
It's like my folks is still on the benches
Surrounded by villains and henchmen, was a killer convention
1991, son, gold fronts on the facial, gun buck by the naval
Disciple could blaze you, we laced it with embalming fluid
Rhyming to music all this time
Fighting 'bout how Kane and Rakim would do it
Seemed impossible to us that we could ever leave
From the block, where the world was forever freezing
Hell if I ever let them shovel me, son, in this cell again
fukk these devil policemen, plush leathers, I need them
Risking my freedom, burners in bubble coats
fukk a sermon from the neighborhood pope
He's sexing ho's, old fart, he's busting ones when he stroke
Multi-colored Pelle Pelle's, young stretch mark bellies
Babies born in a cycle, future disciples
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