Suicide

[Intro: Chapel]
Fucking, like suicide, boy, yo, yo

[Chorus 2X: sample]
Uh, sometimes I cry, (there inside), realize
It's like suicide, there's no way out (no way out)

[Chapel]
Wild, wreck the rhymes, bust out of my mouth
Build styles like an architect, building a house
Chit-chattering, stop that blab in your mouth
I got props worldwide, reach out of the south
Fighting drug free lifestyles, Chapel will joust
Against MC's soft, like a low cut blouse
Keeps ya penal, proteges follow my route
Keep ya lips sealed, boy, what you talking about?
I'mma bust you, stand back, burners'll shout
I keep it all foul, with a thug profile
Your style premature like an unborn child
Fragile, weak ass, boy, you ain't wild
Supreme courts, fuck that, jump that trial
My boys grab Franklins, bumping coat childs
Came a long way, yeah, I ran a few miles
I may not blast cats when I burst, chik-chik-kapow!

[Chorus 2X]

[Dom Pachino]
They ask me what's my main focus, poker face, lookin' the dopest
Always keep my gear in check, and plus, my chain is ferocious
I got bitches, from coast to coasts, la cosa nostra
Is the kid, with the toaster that's ready to roast ya
Never heard of a hostler, I'm fiending to smoke ya
Got the game in a chokehold, getting brains in Sudoco's
It's the kid from Staten Island from the Army of locos
We international, though we used to be local
Couple shows around the globe, shit, folks notice you
Couple magazine ads, those kids are rad
Even white boys love us, bitches, they wanna thug us
Told my Team, when you fuck with them bitches, to rock rubbers
And undercovers, pull up on my block and what not
The spectators don't say shit, or get they shit rocked
You fake thugs, should of learned something from 2Pac, pop, pop, pop...

[Chorus 2X]

[Dom Pachino]
It's not your normal, formal, get together
You have now, been introduced to Terror
Mind power, the type that bring down some towers
Wet ya like a cold shower, it's official, rip ya bristle
Kiss of death, nah, the missile tow more like a missile flow
Gladiator like Russell Crowe, but in the studio
I put words together, like birds of a feather flock
Undercovers, they smother the block, like a rubber on my cock
To discover what's hot, home boy, you not
So put that mic down, let it go, you hear the sound of a bell
Battle rap, in the dungeons of hell
I'm sweating bullets, shitting grenades, spitting gun powder
I take a shower in fire, and hear a shout
That's when I remember, that there's no way out

[Chorus 2X]