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(Verse 1: Tak) |
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Stand back, put the picture my frame |
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The handcraft of a master, the flicker, the flame |
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That sell three madman Megadef LP |
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Monster mash, prop for what? From S.O.B. |
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Chop the honeycomb, what would I be without wax? |
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Just another empty battery shell in the pack |
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String on the puppet, laughin', claimin' I'm all of that |
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When I know in fact, everything you claim is all crap |
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(Sample: Rolling Stones - Play With Fire) |
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"Don't play with me, cause you're playing with fire..." |
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(Verse 2: Ryu) |
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Yo, got the fuse lit, keepin' it movin', so |
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Freakin' abusive, people are pukin', so |
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Sick of the music, suckin' the fumes in |
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So don't get it confused, I'm not you, stupid |
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Hundred-proof booze in the back, all tipsy |
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Bring two clips, I'm clappin' all sixty |
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Swing through quick and bust if one's empty |
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Your chances of leavin' the club: fifty/fifty |
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(Verse 3: Apathy) |
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Wanna fuck around with Hell's recruits? |
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I'll stomp Satan in his face 'til it melts my boots |
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I'll use the sun for my throne, universe as my home |
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And your skull as a crown to adorn my dome |
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Watch porn with your girl, slip a mickey in her Beck's |
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Put a hickey on her neck, then the titties I caress |
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Under match of ??? set's, I'm the one the chickies sweat |
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Make 'em suck it 'til their jaw's fucked up like 50 Cent's |
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Most of you faggots stay postin' that jacked shit |
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But when we retaliate, it's never some rap shit |
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Swing on your mandible and bring out mechanical |
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Devices that splices flesh from the intangible |
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I spark fire like electrical shocks |
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And ready the glocks, to clash with Connecticut cops |
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You're on some Brad Pitt shit, so you better go watch |
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The movie Seven, 'cause you'll find your wife's head in a box |
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(Verse 4: Tak) |
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Rush you bustas, get touched with nunchucks |
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You tough tough, askin' to really get fucked up |
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Who cares what you been through, I'm goin' against you, so |
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Sharpen your skill while I sharpen my Ginsu |
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Gas and ashes, and medical kits, but see |
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That's what happens when chemicals mix |
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The birth of a strange creature, umbilical split |
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But for now, the main feature, you said it was sick |
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(Verse 5: Celph Titled) |
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The word on the streets is that I'm hellbound, 'cause I bully Christians |
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But I stay up in the armory, developin' pulley systems |
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For launchin' grenades strategically, on stage with heaters illegally |
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Got the sound man shook at my vocal frequency |
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Back at the crib, bitch better strap on a bib |
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'Cause when I'm bustin' off, it's drippin' off the tip of her chin |
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Chickens and hens, you know I keep 'em bendin' over for me |
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With my chef hat, stuffin' poultry on the upholstery |
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Celph Titled's known as a gangsta to some |
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I got the powers of the gods, acclimated to one |
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All these young cats with glocks, tryin' to clear the floor |
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I'm old school, when I'm pullin' out my Fearless Four |
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Hear the sound of the clap? Bury your face |
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'Cause the mag that I pack needs a carryin' case |
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I'm not from the Aryan race, but I'll still persecute you |
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Ride around in the trunk with a little hole to shoot through |
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(Verse 6: Ryu) |
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I'm "Word Perfect," back in the circuit |
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Been...top ten since you were snatchin' purses |
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Golf club thug, a nickel and dime hustler |
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All them mob flicks are makin' you rhyme tougher |
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When the nine clicks, you freeze |
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Two sick emcees, get cool quick when I'm shootin' the breeze |
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Who's this? Ryu and Tak, with Ap and Celph |
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Spittin' heat 'till the plastic melt, watch it |
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(Outro: Tak & Ryu) |
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Claim you wanna stay, but you have to go |
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Grab the gun powder, blast the calico |
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Time to saddle up, this ain't a talent show |
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You wanna battle what? Bullets that travel slow |
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Talk, but keep steppin' |
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Discrete, false perception |
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Talk, but keep steppin' |
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Spark with heat weapons |
