wu tang records

In mic fights I swing swords and cut clowns
Shit is too swift to bite you record and write it down
I flow like the blood on a murder scene, like a syringe
On some wild out shit, to insert a fiend
But it was your op to shop stolen art
Catch a swollen heart from not rolling smart
I put mad pressure, on phony wack rhymes that get hurt
Shit’s played like zodiac signs on sweatshirt
That’s minimum, and feminine like sandals
My minimum table stacks a verse on a gamble
Energy is felt once the cards are dealt
With the impact of roundhouse kicks from black belts
That attack, the mic-phones like cyclones or typhoon
I represent from midnight to high noon