| One two, one two
|
| For those who do not know, once again
|
| For those who do not know, once again
|
| (yo, check it yo)
|
| Aiyyo it’s somethin' like a twilight zone ep
|
| Rookies in the hall of fame vets gettin' hazed
|
| Has the world gone crazed?
|
| Like, fatal flesh wounds when you just got grazed or
|
| Walking off a point blank shot from a twelve gauge
|
| There’s no respect for the rules of engagement
|
| Producers know nothing of arrangement
|
| Emcees with five figure deals and never got up on the stage yet
|
| Knowin' that they styles haven’t properly aged yet
|
| Consider these, casualties in the war between art and industry
|
| Fought in the streets, so nobody sells out in vain
|
| It just makes us work harder, on these dope rhymes and beats
|
| Knowing either side ever admits defeat
|
| And screams treason at the first sign of retreat
|
| It’s like a never ending struggle in this box of chocolates
|
| It show that even though you got flavor ain’t nothing sweet
|
| For those who do not know, once again
|
| For those who do not know, once again
|
| Eighty nine was the time that I started catchin' wreck
|
| I had my hair in steps with a fresh pair of sweats
|
| They were rules to abide by, you couldn’t slide by
|
| Rappin' in tye-dye claimin' that you sci-fi
|
| But nowadays people clap even if you’re wack
|
| No wonder everybody wants to rap
|
| These underground cats think they’re down
|
| They don’t know a damn thing
|
| These rock dudes tryna rap cause they can’t sing
|
| You don’t shoot a gun before, learnin' how to use it
|
| Ya don’t shoot ya mouth off before learnin' the music
|
| I stay fly, the rules still apply
|
| Let me tell you the reasons why
|
| You wanna know why, I’ll tell ya why
|
| Why?
|
| Because of my vocals
|
| I told y’all here they come now
|
| Now let me hear my man
|
| First give it up to God, the head of my life
|
| Blessed are the peace bookmakers
|
| The freight burners, the paint huffers
|
| The old school jungle green users
|
| The stock cap rockers, the SP truncators
|
| Beat’s so hot, use a tong, not my tongue, it speaks impurity
|
| Fuck Debbie, plus in blood like Carrie
|
| They’re all gonna laugh at you
|
| I know why Donny did a swan dive off the Essex
|
| You claim inspiration, but still can’t play shit
|
| Talking 'bout you working on a symphony
|
| And can’t even play the timpani
|
| Walls of asbestos filled with the best dust
|
| Power station of the connection, the wizard of Oz
|
| Mixmaster 'nuff weed, DJ pound cake
|
| The brick mason, prime minister V.C. |
| Bird L
|
| Now what is my moniker? |
| Come late like Hanukkah
|
| Johnny come lately, sometimes still crave stay
|
| Pac Man go ank-bank, stank like Hooba
|
| More pickups than Hoover, more run than Suba
|
| The funky dope maneuver, my field is holy
|
| New duva, shook in Judah
|
| Who the fuck wanna test me?
|
| Captain Kenny Clark Gillespie, hold the vest B
|
| We gon' throw some hands in this section
|
| Uhh it’s like that, Count Bass… |