Soldier's Story (feat. Sick Jacken of Psycho Realm)

We all gonna die telling soldier's stories
 When I buck off the gun watch em all duck and run
 P.E. number one, my Desert Eagle weighs a ton
 I got fly bitches twice as hot as Ice La Fox
 That'll get you sliced and popped for that icy watch
 Y'all fucking idiots could learn a lot about business
 Y'all buying Benzes, I'm putting down payments on buildings
 The king of the kidnappings and big ransoms
 It's Ill Bill homie, I break atoms and spit anthems
 We Mansons, grab automatics and throw tantrums
 Show you how the fuck we pop off the banger
 He was an alchy with lots of coke
 A perfect stranger like Balki Bartokomous
 He saw the Glock, he froze, he fell to his knees, begged for his life
 Said he was holding another ten keys with his wife
 Told me her address, threw him in the trunk of the car
 Got ten more bricks plus twenty thousand dollars
 Robbed him of the bread, put the cocaine in the jar
 Shot him in the head, took the yeyo then I'm gone
 We place the O in the soldier, wear the mask for the psycho clique
 My name embedded in the game like a microchip
 You hear the name and you know that the mic get ripped
 Psychorealm, LCN, and we don't like your shit
 I keep my spit raw with street slang
 I script all unauthorized biographies of sick dawgs
 My block filled with the war stories
 So we document the crazy lifestyles of the scarred homies
 We psycho Mexicans, that's how we roll in cliques only
 And got an arsenal to go against your sick army
 The casualties of war from faculties that fall
 The folklore turns real in a street assault
 Soldiers dying in the killing fields
 This a rap song, that street gang banging shit is really real
 Don't get it confused, the city kills
 I burn nine milli drills the enemy of warfare's get it ill
 I reach my speech bitterly through every bitter release
 Chasing demons out my mind to get rid of the beast
 Walk across roads of lost souls, considered deceased
 Then watch the puppet masters dangle strings litter the streets
 The young man pulls his jeans, crease fitted his piece
 By his belt buckle, grabbing his balls, gritting his teeth
 Violent and lone, waiting just to settle his beef
 His fate becomes a weight inside a heart so heavy with grief
 Inside a cemetery children of the 70's sleep
 Products of the 80's fight for Hell and Heaven each week
 Dormant dreams and the doorways to never be reached
 Now it's absolutely evident whenever we speak
 For me to pick up all the pieces sick assault from a sicker soul
 Watching girls sliding down a stripper pole sniffing blow
 The drug game's a sport, it's not pick up ball
 I got a five-year mando right next to my dick and balls