Lyrics:

0. Intro (Optional)

1. Guns Blazing (Drums of Death Pt. 1)

'Somewhere in space, this may all be happening right now'

Offworld Technical Surveillance, this is U-N-K-L-E 77
I'm requesting permission to land, do you copy?
Roger that
You're cleared for landing
Connect to clearance disc 'five-seven-zero-niner'
We're under attack! This is a class-A fire!
I need immediate assistance! I need some assistance!
Red alert! Red alert! We need to get them out of there!

Style like this Al Pacino, lean over to the bossalino
The mad Dino with a Bambino, the Gambino
Bigger than Jim Colosimo
More Reservoir Dogs than Tarantino
Scales for Venezuela, brown as Nino
Making the block hotter than jalepenos
G. Luciano, be wetting {shit} like Pesci in Casino
Fifty dollar cigar seer, from Bosnia
The mafia Don poet like Garcia
Drug Czar and that baby paw beater
The inmate-behind-the-bar freer
The Poconos to Panama skier
Don with the Parmesan, ready to bomb like Vietnam with arms
Course for hallowed books, a phenomenon
The cheddar-spreader, the killer with the gold Beretta
{Nigga}-deader, the sweater-wetter with the hollow ledder
Drama-setter, sip Amarett'a, getting redder
Kids and moms shredder, infrared'll blow off an arm or better
The Godfather, the problem solver
Coming through with the six-shell revolver, hot as lava
Gun skills that’s real, and in the 'ville I be the barber
Gangster saga, the mother{fuckin'} face-carver

Give you a dose of {shit} that’s dope as soda
The underworld family Cosa Nostra
Pearl handle inside the shoulder holster
G. Luciano with a clique but with nothing but {niggas}
And Chicanos, you get hit up like Castellano
Italiano like crime familia, {nigga,} don’t get familiar
Me and my goons might have to kill you
Up in New York, we play bloodsports at home court
And hold down forts, soon as you're caught
Get your dome torched, G Rap and DJ Shadow leave your bones squashed
Squeeze the chrome shot, take no shorts
We judge and jury in the home court
Leave you the blown corpse dead on the sidewalk
Surrounded by mad Peter Falks
Your whole frame laid in the white chalk
You got the smoking section
First-class tickets to resurrection
Forever destined to a place where {niggas} never restin'
Headed in Hell’s direction
Lost at the crossroads and intersection
Should've wore a vest for chest protection
Slugs fill you to the capacity, some wanted to dance
Someone with the hand velocity of Butch Cassidy
Bitch nigga with the audacity to blaspheme me
Got yourself caught in a motherfuckin' tragedy

Drums of death

Shit is real up in this field, you should be packing steel
If you want to cross the Don, kiss the ring and kneel
If you want to bring the beef, you do whatever you feel
Get your whole family killed, bitch, you know how we deal
This is Offworld Mission Control, notifing Central NCP
We've lost contact with U-N-K-L-E 77
Repeat, we've lost 'em
Does anybody out there copy?
Offworld Mission Control, this is U-N-K-L-E 77, is anybody out there?