"He goes on and on 'till he reaches the coast
Tired, wired of his own race playing him close
Understand his type of music kills the
Plan of the klan
You know the pack attack the man
With the palm of his hands
Police, wild beasts, dogs on a leash
No peace to reach - thats why he's packin' his black piece
Terminator X: yellin' with his hands, DAMN!
Almighty rulin ready to jam
But his cuts drive against the belt
Shit...he's bad by his damn self
Yeah, his one job cold threatens the crowd
The loud sound pound to make brothers proud"