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Intro: Method Man |
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It's on... |
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(where your sparkle at kid) |
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Ryzarector |
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Break: Raekwon the Chef |
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Yes the shit is raw, comin at your door |
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Start to scream out loud, Wu-Tang's back for more |
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Yes the hour's four, I told you before |
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Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war) |
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Verse One: U-God |
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This rhyme you digest through the RZA console |
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Ask why I slam, non-diagram pole |
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Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback, Norte Dame |
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Golden Arms is bronze, buddah palm hit Qu'ran |
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It blows extreme, mean stream be the theme |
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Supreme team, America's CREAM team, redeemed |
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Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone |
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Gun POW to the dome |
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And split the bone, wig blown off the ledge |
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By the alledged, full-fledged, sledge RZA edge |
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One dose of my feroc(ious) hand held trigga cuts |
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Acapella spittin shell paralyzed when you get touched |
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And critical, mic cords, hangin like umbilical |
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Cords, dope swords, five star general |
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Raw be the quote rap style sore throat |
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Through the fully operational, hand held tote |
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Break: (first two lines) |
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Verse Two: Ghostface Killer |
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More than thousand times one, snatch up, my styles get done |
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I hold a title, enhanced how my belt was won, check it |
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Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected |
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Germs start to spread through your crew, drew like an epic |
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You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes |
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My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges |
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Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind |
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With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear |
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So sit back and let the king explore |
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Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords |
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And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines |
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With more games than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains |
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Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this |
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You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this |
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Side effects of, hot raps and hot tracks |
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A duffle bag full of guns son, dipped in black |
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My culture, slides and attacks like a vulture |
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Ghostface and Madison Square is on your poster |
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Break |
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Verse Three: Masta Killa |
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Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect |
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That throws more body bags than apartments in projects |
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And as far as the coroners know |
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The autopsy shows, it was a Shaolin blow |
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Put on by my family brought to the academy |
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Of the Wu and learned how to |
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Fuck up your anatomy, steadily, calm and deadly |
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Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit |
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MC's submit to the will as I kill your |
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Juvenile freestyle, civilize the mentail |
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Devils worship this like an icon |
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They're huggin mics with the grips of a python |
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Break |
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Verse Four: Cappadonna (Cappachino) |
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You heard of the rasp before but kept waiting |
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for the sun of song, I keep dancehalls strong |
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Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong |
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extravangza, time sits still |
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No propoganda, be wary of the skill |
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As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum |
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Dedicated to rap niggaz, beware of the fearsome |
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Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat |
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CD massacre, murder to casette |
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I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nothin yet |
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One man ran, tryin to get away from it |
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Put your bifocal on, watch me I'm comin |
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Into your chamber like Freddy enter dreams |
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Discombumberate your technique and your scheme |
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Four course applause, like a black dat to dat |
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You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map |
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Nowhere to go except next show bro |
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Entertainin motherfuckers can't stop O |
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In battlin, you don't want me to start tattlin |
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All upon the stage because y'all snakes keep rattlin |
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Bitch, you ain't got nothin on the rich |
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Every other day my whole dress code switch |
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So just in case you want to clock me like Sherry |
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All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry |
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Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen |
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Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out |
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I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill |
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See my face on the twenty dollar bill |
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Cash it in, and get ten dollars back |
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The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax |
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Pass it in your think, put valve up to twelve |
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Put all the other LP's back on the shelf |
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And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7 |
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1-6-0-4-9-3-11 |
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And you can long dick hip-hop affection |
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I damage any MC who step in my direction |
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I'm Staten Island's best son fuck what you heard |
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Niggaz still talkin that shit is absurd |
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My repotoire is U.S.S.R. |
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P.L.O. style got blown out the car |
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And run over, by the Method Man jeep |
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Divine can't define my style is so deep |
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like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy |
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Like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine |
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Cut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design |
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I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind |
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Cuz you weak in the knees like SWV |
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Tryin to get a title like Wu Killa Bee |
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Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbot |
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Me and RZA ridin name printed in the tablet |
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Under vets, we paid our debts for mad years |
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Hibernate the sound, and now we out like beers |
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and blunt power, born physically power speakin |
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The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin |
