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(feat. M.C. Shan) |
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[Verse 1] |
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It's Shan's what I'm called, I stand tall and brave |
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And me and Marley Marl is as close as a shave |
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My rhymes lock jaw like a pitbull bite |
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Suckers always try to sleep on me cause I look light |
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See, a lotta wack rappers try to rack their brains |
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To feel a style of MC, come on, break these chains |
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Speak now or hold your peace when I decide to pass it |
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But every rhyme you ever had could never surpass this |
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If rhymes were food, the main source for livin |
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You would swear that every line of my rhyme was thanksgiving |
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I don't bite styles, weak rhymes, I don't need em |
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Stop jockin me, boy, give me my freedom |
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[Verse 2] |
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I wanna break away clean, I mean virtually spotless |
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And all year long I been schemin and plottin this |
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If beats were cakes, then my rhymes'd get frosted |
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This is '88 and I still ain't lost it |
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For all of those who still got a doubt in their mind |
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There ain't a rapper livin bad enough to take mine |
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There ain't no studio-illusion and no scratch-syncin |
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Stop - if that's what you're thinkin |
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Write rhymes simultaneously, say em in pairs |
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And I would hate to have a rapper proclaim it theirs |
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Instead in comin in a limo, bring a casket and hearse |
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Before we speak we'll hear the preacher from the deacon first |
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We won't be gathered that day to unite no couple up |
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Marley, are we gettin this on tape? (Yup) |
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All you dirty low-down better slow down faster |
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Your technique isn't good enough to hang with the master |
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I don't bite styles, weak rhymes, I dont need em |
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Stop jockin me, boy, jockin me, son, jockin me, punk |
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Jockin me, kid, give me my, give me my, give me my freedom |
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[Verse 3] |
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I'm the opposite of what you say a slob is |
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Dumpin suckers off is exactly what my job is |
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I'm feared like Napoleon and blessed like Buddah |
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You couldn't face me solo, you'd have to bring your crew to |
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Dump me off, I don't recollect the mumble |
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I ain't soft, homeboy, and picture me crumble |
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And forget all of those that don't like my rap |
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I don't be kickin that old shooby-dooby-doo-wop crap |
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Rappers often brag about their bitin deejay |
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But they can't do Marley nothin, no how, so hey |
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It's clear to the ear what I'm sayin, son |
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That's why we feel like slaves on the freedom run |
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And each and every time a wack rapper walks by me |
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His head starts singin: Come on and fly me... |
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I don't bite styles, weak rhymes, I don't need em |
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Stop jockin me, boy, jockin me, son, jockin me, punk |
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Jockin me, kid, give me my freedom |
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[Verse 4] |
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We can do this like Brutus, I'm not mad, I'm pissed |
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This parade of mine I doubt that you can rain on this |
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You couldn't place my rhymes amongst mortal men |
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When I be rhymin on beats that set the hip-hop trend |
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I will always exist because I'm bein preserved |
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Don't agree to set me free, then you gotta be served |
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I earned a name amongst society as lyrically ill |
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But yet I'm loyal, see, cause marley hooks the beat up still |
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There's no way that you could say there's a day I'd fess |
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Hamana-hamana-nothin, you can kill that mess |
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My rhymes are ruthless, no heart, and totally wretched |
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And if they was to fall down then the beats would catch it |
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I don't bite styles, weak rhymes, I don't need em |
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Stop jockin me, boy, jockin me, son, jockin me, punk |
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Jockin me, kid, give me my, give me my, give me my freedom |
