Pistol Smoke lyrics

[Intro: Ghostface Killah]
Yo, yeah

[Verse 1: Ghostface Killah]
You  can get clapped in the deadly hall
Where  the killers skate off in the clean G Wagen, all gray
Chain swingin', the god-gods was tried for 'meanors
Gucci, last thing they seen hittin' the cement
The  f*ck y'all standing around for?
Watch  my reels, I make scripts off strips like, "Hold on, strip"
I don't care what he say, how many guns he got
Just  ask your mans about my flicks
Movies, gruesome, bombs, we boofed it
Rikers Island, that phone got bodies on it, true sh*t
A click, two sticks, it'll cost you, baby
That's  two pin joints if I lost you, baby
Yeah, I'm back, we can go bar for bar
Tie hands together with the aux, go scar for scar
Go 'head and act up, injuries gon' add up
Walkin' out the ER like a mummy, all wrapped up
Come on board, shooters, we hirin'
Scarface bald head n*ggas, we admire them
Rumor has it a lot of frauds got flaws on 'em
See a lot of Madea in n*ggas, wrong drawers on 'em

[Chorus: Solomon Childs]
Many legs I broke, many necks I choked (Right)
Many legs I broke (Right), many necks I choked (Right)
Many legs I broke (Right), many necks I choked (Right)
And if provoked, I let the pistol smoke (Brr)
Many legs I broke, many necks I choked
Many legs I broke, many necks I choked
Many legs I broke, many necks I choked
And if provoked, I let the pistol smoke
[Verse 2: Ghostface Killah]
I held 'em up like a pair of crutches
Had 'em all in a jam like I ran with Smuckers
Cops, sirens, paparazzis over hot bodies
Headshots in the Maserati
Don't wrap that n*gga, no Polo sheets
Keep it discrete, I told that n*gga he'd be dead in a week
His b*tch told me where he rest, where he keep his cheese
He got a stashbox in the wheel in both his V's
I got forty-seven cocaine connects out in Monaco
Top of the line, these coke chefs made the honor roll
And that's the reason I don't f*ck with faggots
Twenty-one guns that go savage
Seventy nuns that tote smoke in the old baggage
Whatever I see, I grab it
You get the message like it's all in a tablet
You straight b*tch like Tiff Haddish
Hustle grands like Tip Harris
The whole hood drop like a miscarriage

[Chorus: Solomon Childs]
Many legs I broke, many necks I choked (Right)
Many legs I broke (Right), many necks I choked (Right)
Many legs I broke (Right), many necks I choked (Right)
And if provoked, I let the pistol smoke (Brr)
Many legs I broke, many necks I choked
Many legs I broke, many necks I choked
Many legs I broke, many necks I choked
And if provoked, I let the pistol smoke