| Its the ill scripts
|
| And the Hieroglyphics
|
| Plus the scientifics… for the mind x2
|
| Verse 1: Masta Ace?
|
| Hey yo, hey yo
|
| Open up your eyes and tell me what you see
|
| Ease on down the road with me
|
| I hold the key to the doors of your brain
|
| And mental pain was showered down like the rain
|
| From the sky, I wondered, «why did I fly
|
| To a land that was covered by sand?»
|
| And when you popped the shoes off my feet
|
| I walked through blistering heat and didn’t eat
|
| For forty days until I came to a door
|
| At the bottom of a mountain by the shore
|
| My word is bond
|
| I walked in with no fear
|
| And I could hear a fat track in the rear
|
| So I slid to the source of the sound
|
| And what I found, was mad tapes all around
|
| And Kangol hats and suede pumas by the pair
|
| Then in walks this tall man with waves in his hair
|
| He didn’t speak
|
| He walked over to his chair took a seat
|
| And then that stopped the beat
|
| «What's goin' on?» |
| I say
|
| Wonderin' and wonderin', «should I stay?»
|
| With no delay he picked up his crooked click
|
| And the thick book he reached out to me and I took it quick
|
| That’s what he told me to do
|
| I took it home and then I read it with my crew
|
| Okay I think that it’s time we begin
|
| A (of) dreamin' we’ll benefit from the chapters found within
|
| Its the ill scripts
|
| And the Hieroglyphics
|
| Plus the scientifics… for the mind x3
|
| Verse 2: UG (of Cella Dwellas
|
| Chapter 1
|
| I rip out your spine and play the piccolo with your vertebrae
|
| I bet this hurted way different tunes I play
|
| Tunes they open, I’m hopin', keep the rises
|
| My eyes is irritated with livid pictures
|
| Reality fades away
|
| I hear chinks are like the town chariot to all the gangs
|
| Even grapes my dagger’s ready for war sharpening edges
|
| For incisions limit decisions
|
| Like bendin' prisms color form watch the rainbows
|
| Terrific and has mad flavors like skittles
|
| Slide into a pot of gold as I unfold a thought
|
| 'I kill human beings for sport'
|
| Chapter 2
|
| I flex skills that are nasty like porn
|
| Bound to getcha' fucked up as they get ripped, torn
|
| Out the frame bringin' pain to ya membrane
|
| And drain ya veins 'til no blood remains
|
| Mystic brain thoughts like a gypsy
|
| Sippin' on cognac, feelin' kinda tipsy
|
| It’s the mic destroya
|
| Jack’s bean stalk got jacked by Goya
|
| Oh boy ya here we go again
|
| In the Philippines they be eatin' man’s best friend
|
| Gimme 5 to 10 county jail or state pen
|
| But the styles I be killin' off and on like trends
|
| Its the ill scripts
|
| And the Hieroglyphics
|
| Plus the scientifics… for the mind x3
|
| Chapter 3
|
| Hocusin' Pocusin'
|
| I use my third eye to focus in
|
| On your crucifixion an' a psychic like Jeane Dixon pop-predictionin'
|
| Niggas better flee cuz its realm three
|
| I have a different personality
|
| So run go tell your friends, its the dwella from the cella
|
| An pop a cap of swellegant and you’ll be free
|
| Mr. ??? |
| (lady voice)
|
| Like Andy Panda I’m from the luster land
|
| The Necromancer, the Indian Rain Dancer
|
| Underground its the killer clown
|
| The dopah tokah cuz I’ll choke ya then I’ll smoke ya
|
| Lord Digga is the big black spade in the grave and little son of Satan
|
| Master is the ace man that hooks up the beats with bass
|
| Mix between norm and the jinx
|
| And I’m the deuce in ya hand, the talk of the mass
|
| The thrilla, I eat fruit loops the cereal killa
|
| The four man dream team wreckin' all evenin' odds
|
| The deadly deck of cards dealer of the gods
|
| The extra terrifical lyrical spiritual scientifical
|
| Hypnotical and mystical intellectual poetry
|
| Made for da mind destroyin' mankind |