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Clap your hands everybody, if you got what it takes |
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'Cos I'm KRS and I'm on the mic and premier's on the breaks |
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Going out to the hardcore hip-hop |
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Going out to the hardcore hip-hop, of course we don't flip-flop |
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If you don't know me by now, I doubt you'll ever know me |
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I never won a Grammy, I won't win a Tony |
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But I'm not the only MC keepin' it real |
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When I grab the mic to smash a rapper, girls go, \"Ill\" |
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Check the time as I rhyme, it's 1995 |
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Whenever I arrive the party gets liver |
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Flow with the master rhymer, that's to leave behind |
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The video rapper, you know, the chart climber |
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Clapper, down goes another rapper |
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Onto another matter, punch up the data, Blastmaster |
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Knowledge reigns supreme over nearly everybody |
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Call up KRS, I'm guaranteed to rip a party |
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Flat top, braids, bald heads or natty dread |
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There once was a story about a man named Jed |
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But now Jed is dead, all his kids instead |
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Want to kick rhymes off the top of they head |
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Word, what go around come around I figure |
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Now we got white kids callin' themselves niggas |
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The tables turned as the crosses burned |
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Remember you must learn |
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About the styles I flip and how wild I get |
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I go on like a space age rocket ship |
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You could be a mack, a pimp, hustler or player |
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But make sure live you is a dope rhyme sayer |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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This is what you waited all year for |
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The hardcore, that's what KRS is here for |
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Big up Grand Wizard Theodore, gettin' ill |
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If you see then ya saw, I'm in your grill with mad skill |
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MC's can only battle with rhymes that got punchlines |
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Let's battle to see who headlines |
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Instead of flow for flow let's go show for show |
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Toe for toe, yo, you better act like you know |
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Too many MC's take that word 'Emcee' lightly |
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They can't Move a Crowd, not even slightly |
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It might be the fact that they express wackness |
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Let me show ya whose ass is the blackest |
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I flip a script a little bit, you ride the tip and shit |
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Too sick to get with it, admit you bit |
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Your style is counterfeit, now tone it down a bit |
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My title you will never get, I'm too intelligent |
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I'll send your family my sentiments, my style is toxic |
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When I rock and shock and hip hop it unlock your head, I knock it |
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It split quick from the lyric |
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Direct hit, perfect fit, you can't get with it |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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Some MC's don't like the KRS but they must respect him |
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'Cos they know this kid gets all up in they rectum |
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Slappin' and selectin' em, checkin' em, disrespectin' em |
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Just deckin' em, deckin' em, deck-in' em |
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Who in their right mind can mimic a style like mine? |
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I design rhyme and get mine all the time |
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MC's standin' on the sidelines, always dissin' |
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When I roll up and rush their crew they start bitchin' |
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I don't burn, I don't freeze, yet some MC's |
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Believe they could tangle with the likes of these |
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Cross your T's and dot your I's whenever I arrive |
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Wide, magnified, live like the ocean tide |
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You dope, you lied, I reside like artefacts |
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On the wrong side of the tracks, electrified |
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Comin' around the mountain, you run and hide |
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Hopin' your defence mechanism can divert my heat-seeking lyricism |
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As I spark mad iszm the 1996 lyrical style's what I give 'em |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
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MC's act like they don't know |
