| You got the capital g | 
| G to the a-m-c | 
| Givin a mad shout out to the ranch crew from the old school | 
| And we gonna take y’all back, knowhati’msayin? | 
| Lyrical sorcerors right here, the fathers, the cream of the crop son | 
| (yo check it) | 
| Well if you livin in the world today | 
| You be hearin the slang that the wu-tang say | 
| Niggaz that front we don’t handle em | 
| So we blast em, alright, well ok | 
| Well if you like the way it sound then clap man | 
| And if the women love it too well then raise your hands | 
| But only raise your hands if you’re sure | 
| (meth) punk niggaz shatter like a glass jaw, break it | 
| My rhyme gross weight vehicle combination | 
| Was too heavy for the chevy’s is chased out the station | 
| Double-edged was the guillotine that beheaded it | 
| Gassed up, fuckin with some regular unleaded shit | 
| Heads roll on hillsides behind ropes that | 
| Bind-in, x marks the spot on the scope | 
| Heavily armed military is necessary, it’s a gamble | 
| Mc’s bet they best at every | 
| Powerful parable ditties might harm | 
| If tampered with, set off and strike like pipe bombs | 
| Flashbacks to the duel of the iron mic | 
| Look out for these fatal flying spikes, of massive | 
| Sleep-holds, put strangle on commercial angle | 
| Microphone cords tangled from being star spangled | 
| Now who could ever say they heard of this? | 
| My motherfuckin style is mad murderous | 
| Well what you know about mcin? | 
| Yo, I know a lot | 
| Well can you demonstrate somethin nigga? | 
| Huh, I’d rather not | 
| I’m talkin bout stacks cousin | 
| Nigga that’s what I got | 
| Cash rules the world | 
| Well cash rules the spot | 
| My preliminary attack keep cemetaries packed | 
| Of niggaz who think it ain’t like that | 
| Mc’s are gunned down like being run down with mad trucks | 
| Them God struck, religious niggaz call it bad luck | 
| Rap celeb, you got caught up in the web | 
| Now bees are stingin, yo that niggaz em-singin | 
| I’m just swingin swords strictly based on keyboards | 
| Unbalanced like elephants and ants on see-saws | 
| I throw raps that attack like the japs on pearl harbor | 
| Mc’s be out like bank robbers | 
| Fleeing the scene, to be a sole survivor | 
| Dj the getaway driver | 
| Tried to dip but he dive I socialize on vocal vibes | 
| On tracks stabbed up with razor sharp knives | 
| Criminal subliminal minded rappers find it | 
| Hard to define it, when narrow is the gate | 
| For fat tapes and then played out and out of date | 
| Then I construct my thoughts on site to renovate | 
| And from that point, the God made a statement | 
| Draftin tracements, replacements in basements | 
| Materials in sheet-rock, to sound proof the beat box | 
| And microscopic optics received through the boxes | 
| Obnoxious topic, major labels, flavor tropical | 
| Punchlines, that’s unstoppable | 
| Ring like shots from glocks that attract cops | 
| Around the clubs and try to shut down the hip-hop | 
| But we only increase if everything is peace | 
| Father u c king the police |