| Daz:
|
| Aw yeah!
|
| Right about now it’s time to get busy
|
| Huh, straight out the box, nonstop
|
| Kurupt the Kingpin, Xzibit, Crooked I
|
| (Wait a minute, um)
|
| Crooked I:
|
| This is the art of, manslaughter
|
| When I’m rockin' I’m more shockin' than droppin' a boom box in bath water
|
| You entered the wrong scuffle
|
| You catchin' a chrome buckle
|
| I uppercut niggas hard enough to break my own knuckles
|
| Deliver the sick verbals
|
| My shotty spit a round, before you hit the ground
|
| Your body spin around, in six circles
|
| Diminishin' infamous menaces
|
| I’m waitin' to get dicced, if not, I’m a start finishin' innocents
|
| Freezin g’s in your legion
|
| Freakin' ancient techniques when I’m speakin' phoenician
|
| It’s all about Crooked
|
| These bitches shout Crooked
|
| I’ll make you say the West Coast ain’t shit without Crooked
|
| I own a vicious label, niggas’ll get disabled
|
| When I’m spittin' rhymes written on project kitchen tables
|
| I load this 4−5 and let slugs dive at ya
|
| Now that’s for Crooked I, the scrap happy, mic snatcha
|
| Daz:
|
| Motherfuccers can you dig that, huh?
|
| Can you fucc with this?
|
| Let’s get Kurupt the Kingpin to fucc y’all niggas up
|
| Y’all don’t wanna see none of this west coast mc shit
|
| Yeah, how you like me now motherfucker!?!
|
| Kurupt:
|
| Terror starts, in the midst of your heart, starts
|
| The storm, my vocals float like arts
|
| In the mystic state of mind, when I create a rhyme
|
| My microphone massacres every year the same time
|
| With audio amputations, vocal thoughts of a loud talker
|
| Up against the microphone night stalker
|
| With a tendency of bashing mcs, like ten of me
|
| As you can see I continue mashin' mcs
|
| Caboom, the room gets cleared as my views get clearer
|
| Extra-terrestrial microphone terror
|
| In effect, get infected
|
| Tell me what the fucc you expected
|
| These venemous injections
|
| I leave whole sections, and sections full of injections
|
| From these poisenous melodies and selections
|
| I select the methods of slow anguish
|
| I mangle shit with my language
|
| Tell me, have you ever seen one elope
|
| With the microphone
|
| In a scandal like abilities to make mcs explode
|
| Baboom, alone in my own zone
|
| So don’t compare me to none
|
| Not one’s nearly
|
| Severe, cuz I severely, impare mcs
|
| Near me, oppose and fear me, I got plots and theories
|
| Sincerely, I could have the spot locked
|
| Niggas get stoned for touching microphones
|
| With no knowledge on how to rock
|
| Daz:
|
| Yeah, back in effect, it don’t stop
|
| Turn your speakers up, dj Battlecat on the table
|
| We fuckin' it up like this and like that, yeah
|
| Got my homeboy Xzibit in the motherfuccin' house
|
| Alkaholiks!
|
| Xzibit:
|
| When I was enlisted
|
| I came to the table double fisted
|
| Sadistic, heavy artillery, for all my enemies
|
| Bust shots up in the sky screamin' obsenities
|
| Make niggas sport cackies and chucks from hear to Italy
|
| It’ll be, a cold day in Hell when you see Xzibit fail
|
| Act like a bitch on bail, tuck tail, and run
|
| See we do it how it can’t be done
|
| I’m the rough cut, plus how the west was won
|
| Or direct descendant of the gatling gun
|
| Don’t test me son, you fucc around and catch you one
|
| That ain’t a threat, that’s a promise I can definitely keep
|
| You can’t compete wit' 25 niggas wit' heat in the street
|
| Ready to repeat, round after after round at you
|
| All hell break lose when the whole Pound come through
|
| I found that you and yours, can never fucc wit' mine
|
| I own shit but gimme some more like Busta Rhymes
|
| Cross the line, now you gotta pay the piper
|
| I’m The Alkaholik sniper, that be keepin' the crowds hyper
|
| It’s ashes to ashes and dust to dust
|
| Can’t stop till me and my niggas is platinum plus
|
| My Dogg Kurupt
|
| Daz:
|
| Yeah, no shit
|
| Yeah, y’all can’t fucc wit' that
|
| That’s what I’m talkin' about
|
| West coast, we been doin' this shit for years
|
| Ain’t nothin' happenin' wit' that
|
| Battlecat
|
| (Don't step up)
|
| Right, right
|
| (Don't step up, unles you wanna get hurt)
|
| Huh, huh, huh
|
| (Get get get get hurt)
|
| Whatcha say
|
| Motherfuccas that be hangin' in the battle
|
| (Get hurt, get get get get hurt)
|
| That’s what I’m talkin' about
|
| Daz Dillinger
|
| (Don't step up, unless you wanna get hurt)
|
| Break it down, break it down
|
| Huh
|
| (mixed with Battlecat’s scratching)
|
| Motherfuccas can’t fade this shit |