[Crunch Lo]
I bleed stress and I sweat out pain, check out my 
hardcore reign
Insane, I bring the pain like a John Blaze, for days
Yo, I was dusted in the range
Feds on my ass, I was off in the phase
A bad route, with the fiends, giving me clout
From a locked up, bass in your face, you get chopped up
And bagged and sealed and sold, I'm bold
With the black fatigues, and my skully cuz it's cold
By the shores, rich in terror's halls, bringing dirty 
money
Acting funny, shorts, five for forty
Thinking I'm a shorty, but grown man
Smoke home grown of the haze and black
Blunts, looking like a bat, true fact, act up and get 
clapped up
From Yosemites, drown my sorrows in the weed and Remy
Ma, ghetto superstar, Crunch Lo
Polly with the baby pa, the German helmets
The black one thousands, cruising in your project 
housing
West Brighton plaza, wheezing like ashtma
Thoughts get captured and absorbed like a sponge
You count for my all my ones, and my sons, and my 
daughters
Fuck around, nigga, you'll get slaughtered
[Chapel]
Take a hit for myself, the God, he need wealth
Like Scott, but inside, he gone a bad health
I guess it's all the slinging that your homeboy dealt 
right
Poetry for love, and everybody else
My pen melt, from high gems, scribble tearing bad 
health
A bad self of Gods, droppin' hands around ya retards
Dodge these waving flash lights security guards
Never had a crew, I was bubbling hard
In my spare time, I met meditate, formulate Gods
Pull ya ways up, Chap be the body massage
Listen, Napalm arsenal, demolish your heart
We official with the wordplay, the soldiers of charge
[Dom Pachino]
If I left it up to them, I'd be fucked up with no money
I put in work, man, holla at your dunny
It's supposed to be fam, it ain't suppose to look funny
Now it's few I salute, that's word to my Timberland 
boot
And my camouflage suit, my words good money
Killarmy forever, ya'll niggas gotta love me
I hear my shit in your jeeps, ya'll niggas gotta bump 
me
I'm hot, my shit like crack, bootleggers wanna pump me
It's Dom P., I pop them thangs, and also pop bubbly
My beard a little scruff, I can take it back
To opping wheelies with my Huffy, when my darts was a 
little rusty
But now they fine tuned and oiled, I was raised in the 
soil
No silver spoon, but, we had aluminum foil
That we used to wrap the works, sold the pack wouldn't 
spoiled
[Chorus 6X: Tara Star (Dom Pachino)]
Load your magazines, it's the Team, the Regime
Things ain't always what they seem (knawImean?)
[Outro: Dom Pachino]
Attention soldiers, ya'll niggas better get focused, 
man
Try to get this heavy gwop, military shit, son
The Team, the regime, the force
Taking over, son, word up, my troops is ready