Paxety Pages

A Periodical - Internet Edition


Daily News and Commentary
Mahone Speaks
Lehamic's World
Cuba Libre
Bluenotes and Three Heads
Feature Articles
Tales and Humor
Our Animal Companions
9/11 Memorial
Guest Appearances

Site Meter

G W Crewe
Friday, August 19, 2005   By: Mahone Dunbar

Getting down with Killer G

Transcribed: August 18, 2005



Yo, Karl. Put about twenty-four bars of drum (a Roland 808 kinda sound for the e-drums) and bass line as the smoke machine starts and the GW Crewe (I think still think PA Posse is better, but fuck, that's just me) and yo fly girls takes the stage. They all should bust a few moves, put some booty in the faces of the audience, then start waving their arms in the air and singing "Yo . . . yo . . . yo . . . n' shit like that. The house lights will be moving 'round the stage. Sampled sounds of bombs dropping would be cool here, and the bitches could emphasize each explosion with a booty bump. The lights will suddenly go on the center of the smoke and the DJ will start scratching out some cool shit, see. Then the president, A.K.A. Killer G, will come out of the smoke wearing his wrap-around shades and flashing his White House bling bling medallion, approach the microphone, point at the audience, and begin.




Yo Killer G In Da House

by Snoop Doggy Dog & DJ Rove

Hey corner boy, I heard yo’ verse, heard yo free stylin’, just a running down the prez, reviling.

Well step back phool, ‘cause you ain’t cool, not phat, none of that, just another hater, wuz up with that?

My name is Killer G, you should respect me, but you hate the game ‘cause I play it better than you. That’s right, my shit ‘s tight.

(Posse Chorus) Hey, Yo. Hey, Yo. His shit’s right, Killer G ‘s so tight.


You thuggin’, bitch smackin’, out there mackin’, all the time car jackin’

I got a word, you ain’t heard. Respect. Do you know it? Well what the heck.

Yet you look at me, (opens his arms expansively) and what you see? Just a honky in the white house? Yeah, dhat’s me. The prez, the boss, alpha male, big dog, so step off , louse.

Killer G is in the house.

(Killer G folds his arms and turns his back to the audience)

(The GW Crewe testifies: Back off phool, he’s killer G, back off punk, better listen to me.)

(Killer G now takes the mic off the stand and moves toward the edge of the stage. The sisters line up on each side of Killer G and start doing some really dirty shit with their booty while the posse boys start styling in place.

You say the law of the jungle is the law of the streets, a man gets what he wants by bringing on the heat. Well I got heat, like you can’t imagine, ask Hiroshima, or Nagasaki . . . What! They ain’t talking?

Go figure that. They burnt flat. Shadows on the wall. My game is so big, you can’t imagine it at all.

Yo, you got yo’ colors, I got mine, too, my hommies are wrapped in red white and blue.

So props to my peeps at the pentagon, you wanna dance with my boys? Well bring it on!

So you got a forty-fo’, Mack 10, wanna hurt me, bust a cap, well think again.

You give me a drive by, my posse ’ll give you a fly by, blow yo’ ass really high, the pieces scattered far away, leave yo’ mama pickin’ up yo’ DNA.

Mess wid me? Niggar’ pu-lease. That just ain’t valid. I’ll kick yo’ ass, then make you suck my fatty and toss my salad.

(Fly girls respond: Ohhhh, You’ll suck his fatty, toss his salad.)

Now listen up, dig this. (The dancers in the background start doing their most mad shit now)

You always looking at me, saying what to do, well here’s my microscope, turning on you.

You find society stressful, ‘cause you ain’t successful, so you form a crewe, for killin’, stealin’, car-jackin’, or dealing out the boo.

Drive-bys, you ask why, Tupac got whacked, stray bullets are slay bullets, for babies in their cribs and kids on the street, you make ‘em live in the hood, a place with no retreat, treat ‘em like so much meat.

Yeah, that’s what I’d call collateral damage.

So yo posse and yo hommies and yo dawgs and you, only be leeches ‘cause that’s all that you can do.

The ghetto is that all you know? Welfare ho’s, and they bastards, blame it on the man cause you won’t feed ‘em, don’t need ‘em, sociopaths don’t make father figures, so nobody heeds ‘em.

What’s that? You say that war is bad, you say that war is rotten? But if it wasn’t for war yo’ lazy ass ‘d still be pickin’ cotton. Word up. You don’t believe in war, but you believe in killin’? Wuz up with that? Yo’ mind must be chilling.

Mess with my homies, violate my turf, if you got the balls, see what it’s worth.

My posse‘s gone cap us some weird beards, some of Allah’s boys, and what a noise.

A war for oil? you squeal like a little girl, or sing like a college dyke, but I don’t see you givin’ up yo’ fly wheels, riding a bike.

Watch me bomb the ragheads, back to the stone age, make ‘em really rage. Like an ant hill, maximum overkill, if I had enough insecticide, I’d spray it on the desert, make ‘em really fry.


You always dissing on me. Say I stutter, say I mutter, but good convictions ain’t always relayed by proper diction.

And who you to talk, word up on that. You got no grammar, you talk like Mississippi, or maybe Alabama.

Yo, you say my daddy helped me? Shit, it ain’t my fault. You just jealous, ‘cause, yo mama’s such a ho, yo daddy ran off.

And who can blame him? You must’ve shamed him.

You didn’t like to ma-tric-ulate, rather play hoops late, get all up, in the teacher’s face, profile and style, so, phool, now you really kool, don’t act yo’ age, only make minimum wage, got a degree, only good for a gig at Mickey D’s.

(Posse chorus:) Shut yo’ mouth, phool. Shut yo’ mouth phool.

I’m dumb? Shee-it. I went to Yale, yo ghettoized ass ain’t even on the Bell--Curve, that is.

Like yo’ hommies you slid down the slope, then off the end, now you huddled at the bottom, with all yo’ other hood-rat friends.

So when you look at me it don’t matter what you see, ‘cause when it comes down to it I’m just another white boy with a jay oh bee.

Yeah, that’s me, I’m Killer G; and if you can't dig it, you some kinda’ bigot.

So, phool, step off, and just shut yo’ mouth you big disgrace, ‘cause Killer G is livin’ large, in yo’ face.

(Posse/chorus: Just shut yo’ mouth you big disgrace, Killer G is livin’ large, in yo’ face.)



PS. Karl. Still waiting for that special package you promised me from the DEA. I need more inspiration, dig.

Regards, Dog


(c)1968- today j.e. simmons or michael warren