Carmine's had it with the turf he's sharin',
So he tells to us guys of wise.
Wants to make so they've less grab dollars,
Wants us cut all them down to size.
Wants 'em hit makin' holes red and runny,
Keep it less flashy he'll expend us lot more money.
Ain't nobody talkin' 'bout a gun down,
Dummy up! Just Chill, Rocco, Mole and me.

Blood's all splattered in the car we're driving,
What the hell - hey it's just our style.
We're all set to get their Don retired,
Learn a lotta news with durable pliers.
Chill and Mole they seem to be semi-mental,
You best bet our crew makes not view accidental.
Pop plunk, tool punks, load 'em in the car's trunk,
Just Chill, Rocco, Mole and me.

So, it's not a matter of the pay for these capers,
'Cause we always get the job done clean.
Just four black hands in town,
Blastin' round after round ends their story, out a magazine,
Leavin' such a ravaged scene.

When we shot a pair of punk wise guysers,
It was bright orange flairs and flash.
They were reelin' as they go stumble crazy,
Shots don't out live; They're smoked to ash.
Chill wastes, for fun he's such a sure bet a freaker,
He likes the 12 gauge ‘cause it makes lots of leakers.
Crime pays, rant rave, half crazed, guns ablaze,
Just Chill, Rocco, Mole and me.

Oooooooh, as we batter and the clowns lie bleeding,
Put 'em down, knock 'em out and such.
What they think that we are grade 'A' stupid?
What they are is way deep in dutch.
Gonna throw you such a bad trashin' dummy,
'Cause we got our hooks in a whole lotta money.
Done the 'EX" phase, dug graves, flash blaze, end their days,
Just Chill, Rocco, Mole and me.
Everybody's taken out and gunned down,
Money's up for Chill, Rocco, Mole and me.