And if you want beef, then bring the ruckus.
And if you want beef, then bring the ruckus.
I bomb atomically, Socrates’ philosophies and hypotheses can’t define how I be droppin’ these mockeries.
Still taking my time to perfect the beat, and I still got love for the streets.
I lay awake and strap myself in the bed with a bulletproof vest on and shoot myself in the head.
So won’t the real Slim Shady please stand up?
Well, I’m a singer, dancer, we bulletproof brothers. Wu-Tang got the answer.
Who’s house? Run’s house.
Superbad, who am I? Dolemite classic.
Swing down, sweet chariot, stop and let me ride.
Now this looks like a job for me, so everybody just follow me.
Tillin’ the wasteland sands, raps on backs of treasure maps, stacks to the ceilin’ fan.
What is there to talk about? You was just frontin’, now it ain’t nothin’, ain’t that somethin’?
I’m expressing with my full capabilities, and now I’m living in correctional facilities.
Beef is when I see you, guaranteed to be in ICU.
Represent represent.
My slang is editorial explicit material, briefcase yo, live in stereo flow.
Everybody report to the dance floor – it’s your chance for a little romance-or.
In New York, the people talk and try to make us rhyme, they really hawk, but we just walk because we have no time.
I sell rhymes like dimes.
So crack a bottle, let your body waddle, don’t act like a snobby model you just hit the lotto.
My poems were found next to dinosaur bones, perform by the elders before the kings thrown.
Hip hop just died this mornin’ and she’s dead, she’s dead.
Woke up in the morning, like ten A.M. Walked passed the Listerine, went straight for the gin.
Formed in a very strong advanced post, east to west coast, ahead of time, competition not even half close.
Yo, my words should never fail, shootin’ darts sharper than a carpenters nail.
PRhyme, PRhyme, I’m in my permanent prime, I ain’t never falling off.
I’m shrewd about decimals and my man’ll speak patois, and I can speak rap star.
When you attack, I fall back in the wind like the lotus – put the soul in the track like my name was Otis.
Bass in your face, not an eight track, gettin’ it good to the wood so the people give you some a dat.
This is the point from which I could never return, and if I back down now then forever I burn.
In the hood, it’s against all odds, you spit 16 bars.
Don’t ask me, because I don’t know why, but it’s like that, and that’s the way it is.
Spotlight hits the metal mic, majority stare – heard the Wu snare, while my iris cut down the glare.
X gonna give it to you.
Watch your step, kid (yo, you best protect ya neck).
When they see me, they say, “Who dat ovah there?” Just a lil dude with a head full of hair.
Every hood that we go through, all the gangsters around know my whole crew.
Shimmy shimmy ya, shimmy yam, shimmy yay, gimme the mic so I can take it away.
Don’t you know I’m loco?
It’s not a game – you play chess with life, end up in the flame.
Stay on top but remain from the underground – X to the Z and we all in the family.
The most duplicated, anticipated, validated urban legends in the books with the ones who made it.
Want to measure my size? I rise above the norm, the urban icon ridin’ on the eye of the storm, fool.
I challenge any opponent who want to smoke – we can pull ‘till our voice get lower than Tone Loc.
Just when things seemed the same, and the whole scene is lame, I come and reign with the unexplained for the brains ‘til things change.
Can I rise? And get to the laugh, through the cries. While I’m alive, the projects, the hood through my eyes.
My posse come quick, because my posse got velocity.
The mic is cast to the floor and shapeshifted. Heavy as the hammer of Thor you can’t lift it.
Infamous Queensbridge kid we on the scene kid.
Fight the power, indeed.