[Chorus x2: King Just]
We came to get it started
We came to act retarded
My squad is so damn heartless
We gonna rep regardless
[Eyeslow:]
You just gotta hear me out with this rhyme
How it raised in Sin City, where you can get clapped for a dime
Running your mouth and snitching, get you clapped with the iron
That just leads to more stress, more drama and crying
In my hood, everything is a crime
I know 8 year olds, with cell phones, crack, vest and a nine
On they own, invested in time, call Murda for work
Sha let you invest in the dime
I'm the bud in the Dolce Gabana, fitted hat
Eyeslow still puffing, while I'm gripping the llama
Yeah, these niggas don't want no drama
How I got heavy artillery and too much armor
Drug kids get smacked and run to your mama
Niggas don't want it, man, I'm quick with the llama
Mopping you, you so soft, fit for the drama
I'm the period, nigga, you the slash and the comma, yeah
[Chorus x2]
[D.C.:]
That boy, be the type to handle my business
Making cowards roll over like cellular minutes
If it's a club, you can tell when we in it
In the back with the mack and the twenty sack, inhaling the spinach
D.C.'s one hell of a nigga
Cause you can catch me anytime, anyplace, like a felony, nigga
Practice booth, I spit til I crack this booth
Crack a smile til I crack your tooth, that's the truth
Why I got D.C. here to carry the torch
Put your brains in the bag and let you carry your thoughts
And nah, I ain't your average sport
I went form bankrupt to bankroll, four-five-sixes til the bank close
Chain block, save the same musician in the same quote
Getting cheddar, ducking the same po's, in plain clothes
Tim Brown, little brown brother, let the pound stutter
Rounds flooded you clowns, utter the Don say I'm gutter
[Chorus x2]
[King Just:]
Speak when spoken too, I'm not you
Plus you can't do, what I can do
Lose you in thoughts, with all types of source
Park Hill, east barricks, holding the fort
Teach what is taught, and show support
K.J., here to save the day, I relit the torch
Hope the competition steps it up
Cash Rule, why you think in God we trust?
Build your house, while I build my community
I rock the emblem upside down, for the mutinity
Future of the industry, and you ain't got to feel me
Simile Himalayas, source like Eric B.
Open sesame, you won't get the rest of me
The street be stressing me to come out immediately
So I drop, make it hot on the spot
We gon' bump this shit, whether you like it or not
[Chorus x2]
[Leathafase:]
This is the Killzone, my nine mil drills through domes
And then spins you similar to 26 inch chromes, holmes
Your bones is made of foam, your jaws made of glass
And your veins pump cherry Kool-Aid, bitch nigga, you ass
Bitch tripping the glass table, the weight so enormous
Law enforcements study my picture perfect painted portraits
Guns are gorgeous, my tongue sharper than a swordfish be
Crispy clear, til the airs, the fear factor
Ran rapper, heart colder than the continent of Antarctica
Dominant when I blam the launcher
Son, I'm amped enough to conquer a whole project block
Or more longer that'll dump off in your hardest cops
Soon as I let the pump off, the target is marked
These pellets scattered in your heart means X marks the spot
I got bitches who suck dick like it was National Sperm Day
You get murdered in broad day by my ratchet through word play
[Chorus x2]
King Just is a musical artist shrouded in mystery. Their discography includes the album "Mystics of the God", which remains one of the few pieces of information available about them. The lack of biographical details and limited media presence make it difficult to reconstruct King Just's history, leaving room for various speculations.
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