| Song | Walk the Dogs |
| Artist | RZA |
| Album | Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai |
| 作词 : Royal Fam | |
| (feat. La the Darkman) | |
| [Intro: Timbo King] | |
| Y'all niggas shittin on my sidewalk | |
| Curb ya dog | |
| You could pay a penalty for that | |
| [Timbo King] | |
| Yo, sharp swords and rusty knives against dusty nines | |
| You stink niggas with musky vibes | |
| Battle cry, warrior stance, the black Pearl Harbor | |
| Smell of revenge, worms in the air | |
| Spit like grandpa from down South | |
| Three-sixty roundhouse, I'm throwin planets and stars | |
| All I need is two pieces of fish and five loaves of bread | |
| Watch me feed five thousand, power the Hill | |
| Out of the ville, zip code unlisted | |
| Murder last night, the homocide, missed it | |
| Blood For Blood, gang turf | |
| The way of the samurai sword, we bang first | |
| Each your food, test your flesh, lock doors | |
| Top dogs with paws obey God's laws | |
| Claim your set, light reflects off water | |
| My Fam outta state sellin quarters | |
| Convicts with court orders | |
| Shoot the gift out the barrel | |
| Multiple gunshot wounds or poison arrows | |
| Moon saw beats pharoah, bloody apparell | |
| The streets look safe, but they narrow | |
| Modern day Jes' James, rock trains, close range | |
| Watches and chains, ear rings, everything | |
| Corporate thugs move on business campaigns | |
| Blaze, ignite the flame, I carry the torch | |
| Walk through The Valley of Death and get scorched | |
| [Chorus: Mighty Jarrett] | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Two shot lick out, a man get shot | |
| Straight from the cannon, ass wouldn't know less | |
| Just because of that, the whole block get hot | |
| Police helicopter, a snipe 'pon de roof top | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Two minute later, Babylon catch spark | |
| In the staircase with a rasclat glock | |
| Never know, said them wouldn't come round back | |
| Know him look like, said him youths can't talk | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| [police sirens] | |
| [machine gun fire] | |
| [La the Darkman] | |
| Darkman, came do my thing, the Bee sting | |
| Assassinate your whole team with the forty red beam | |
| My sword gleam, sharpen my script as an arrow | |
| Professional, La, my style, double barrell | |
| I self-Lord, master, natural disaster | |
| Holy slang to splash ya, dark force to thrash ya | |
| Blind eyes, puligiments, got four wives | |
| Inside my square, rappers get buried alive | |
| We never even, put you in the dirt still breathin | |
| Perfection, gold mic touch, dunn, I'm blessin | |
| Flames lick the flesh, shot at some of the best | |
| When delf play me at my rest, stab the kid in his chest | |
| Now I got respect, runnin through boroughs, hoods and towns | |
| Niggas pull they pants down when I show the four pound | |
| Verbally fantastic, cock my rhyme, blast it | |
| Trapa Ghandi, classic, gun talk, gymnastics | |
| Rude boy, shoot, seek and destroy | |
| My gold tech blast rappers from here to Quebec | |
| Yo, La's born, Brooklyn raised | |
| You niggas get more than grazed when I blaze my guage | |
| It's not an arcade, dunn, my gun is real as AIDS | |
| I'm Holyfield, rappers is Tyson these days | |
| Darkman, Wu-Tang Clan, La the Darkman | |
| Wu-Tang Clan, the Killah | |
| [Chorus] | |
| [police sirens] | |
| [machine gun fire] |
| zuò cí : Royal Fam | |
| feat. La the Darkman | |
| Intro: Timbo King | |
| Y' all niggas shittin on my sidewalk | |
| Curb ya dog | |
| You could pay a penalty for that | |
| Timbo King | |
| Yo, sharp swords and rusty knives against dusty nines | |
| You stink niggas with musky vibes | |
| Battle cry, warrior stance, the black Pearl Harbor | |
| Smell of revenge, worms in the air | |
| Spit like grandpa from down South | |
| Threesixty roundhouse, I' m throwin planets and stars | |
| All I need is two pieces of fish and five loaves of bread | |
| Watch me feed five thousand, power the Hill | |
| Out of the ville, zip code unlisted | |
| Murder last night, the homocide, missed it | |
| Blood For Blood, gang turf | |
| The way of the samurai sword, we bang first | |
| Each your food, test your flesh, lock doors | |
| Top dogs with paws obey God' s laws | |
| Claim your set, light reflects off water | |
| My Fam outta state sellin quarters | |
| Convicts with court orders | |
| Shoot the gift out the barrel | |
| Multiple gunshot wounds or poison arrows | |
| Moon saw beats pharoah, bloody apparell | |
| The streets look safe, but they narrow | |
| Modern day Jes' James, rock trains, close range | |
| Watches and chains, ear rings, everything | |
| Corporate thugs move on business campaigns | |
| Blaze, ignite the flame, I carry the torch | |
| Walk through The Valley of Death and get scorched | |
| Chorus: Mighty Jarrett | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Two shot lick out, a man get shot | |
| Straight from the cannon, ass wouldn' t know less | |
| Just because of that, the whole block get hot | |
| Police helicopter, a snipe ' pon de roof top | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Two minute later, Babylon catch spark | |
| In the staircase with a rasclat glock | |
| Never know, said them wouldn' t come round back | |
| Know him look like, said him youths can' t talk | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| Wa wa wa wa wa wa wa wa BLUH! | |
| police sirens | |
| machine gun fire | |
| La the Darkman | |
| Darkman, came do my thing, the Bee sting | |
| Assassinate your whole team with the forty red beam | |
| My sword gleam, sharpen my script as an arrow | |
| Professional, La, my style, double barrell | |
| I selfLord, master, natural disaster | |
| Holy slang to splash ya, dark force to thrash ya | |
| Blind eyes, puligiments, got four wives | |
| Inside my square, rappers get buried alive | |
| We never even, put you in the dirt still breathin | |
| Perfection, gold mic touch, dunn, I' m blessin | |
| Flames lick the flesh, shot at some of the best | |
| When delf play me at my rest, stab the kid in his chest | |
| Now I got respect, runnin through boroughs, hoods and towns | |
| Niggas pull they pants down when I show the four pound | |
| Verbally fantastic, cock my rhyme, blast it | |
| Trapa Ghandi, classic, gun talk, gymnastics | |
| Rude boy, shoot, seek and destroy | |
| My gold tech blast rappers from here to Quebec | |
| Yo, La' s born, Brooklyn raised | |
| You niggas get more than grazed when I blaze my guage | |
| It' s not an arcade, dunn, my gun is real as AIDS | |
| I' m Holyfield, rappers is Tyson these days | |
| Darkman, WuTang Clan, La the Darkman | |
| WuTang Clan, the Killah | |
| Chorus | |
| police sirens | |
| machine gun fire |