Adjust that treble right now adjust the bass
Turn it up stop frontin
C'mon turn it up
Alright check it out ninety three lyrics here we go
Bo!
I never want a jheri curl up under my hat
The woman in my bed has got to be strictly black
I never want money if my lyrics are wack
So I must roc the mic
I play only the reggae and I play only rap
I rock the African the European, and Jap
Beneath I got to show you that I am all that
So I must, roc, the mic
Are you tired of lyrical liars, passing fliers
Wannabe MC's, but really good triers
Tripping over mic cords, getting you bored
A total fraud, this kind of thing I can't afford, so I
pick up the mic and kill it ill it top bill it
The cough is a skillet, where MC's get fried in it
You got beef chill it, blood I spill it
After seven long years of ripping the party and I'm still widdit
You call my name I don't think about suing ya
I come to the club with that BOOYAKA
Laughing while I'm doin ya the crowd is booin ya
Gimme one month, record for record on tape I'll ruin ya
Some likkle awl pon sound bwoy wan fi rule de city
His style is lookin pretty beats and rhymes are dibby dibby
Here comes the rootical ratical teacha
I'll eat ya defeat ya beat ya till ya stagger and ya teeth chatter
You'll be goin through convulsions as I flash data
Any rapper can be a decapitated rapper now what's the matter
You're full of more junk than a sausage
Let me show you what a real hip-hop artist
*DJ Premier cuts and scratches
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