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（Intro: DJ Premier） |
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PRhyme! Adrian Younge, Royce Da 5'9", DJ Premier. |
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This song here was originally supposed to be done with my man Black Thought. |
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Unfortunately, we lost a great man: Mr. Richard Nichols; R.I.P. |
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To the legendary Roots crew, hold your head.(We love y'all, you know) We all continue on, |
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that's how life's supposed to be, and that's how we treat life. |
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So, one day, Riq gave me a call; |
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he said "Yo, that joint you did with Common, y'all wanna do a remix of that?" |
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By the way, shout out to Common. |
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Congratulations on the Oscar, my *************. John Legend, big up. |
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Word, I said, "yeah, yeah, when y'all wanna do that?" |
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He said, "yo, I'll come over right now". |
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Oh, yeah? Well, step inside the booth. |
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Yo, Riq, it's go time. Wi*************n': Part II |
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（Verse 1: Black Thought） |
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Yo, the voice of the announcer signing off |
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Salvador, a connoisseur, a hot monologue |
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Rachmaninoff, livin' life not by the law |
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And I'm a product of that Rakim — God, Allah |
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Forensic files, leaving 'em disemboweled, '87 style |
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They chance slimmer than reverend Al or Kevin Liles |
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Some friends are vile, still be peddlin' vials |
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Off of eleven mile, they wi*************n' you would |
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You prolly better reconcile |
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The dark side of to who they rising in prominence |
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My crown's taller than Suleiman of The Ottoman's |
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Wiser than Solomon, mobilizing the following |
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They try and give me the Nobel prize for novelists |
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Peace to cats that rock MAC knowledge knowledges |
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Hood astrologists, illegal anesthesiologists, yo |
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El elefante, Bella Fonte |
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Keep a regimen ready to give 'em hell if PRhyme say |
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(Verse 2: Black Thought) |
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Yo, post traumatic stress, I wear it as a family crest |
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I murder at its best, words that'll manifest causing cardiac arrest |
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Budapest to Marrakesh, my slang Bangladesh |
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My gang’s Clarence X, I'm life after death, the last Levine X |
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Lettin' every other rapper know they better wear a vest |
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I'm pulling in two hundred thousand for appearances |
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I wrote a song about it, here it is, yo |
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The creature feature search a preacher teacher torch |
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Capture, rupture, rapture, reach her, the preacher |
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He defeat ya, speak the ether, sneak then creep ya |
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Say no peace to meet ya, can't nobody get with me |
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Strong suits from Italy, chill, humility what I'm all about, ability, yo |
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I wish a ************* would bring the hostility though |
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You know how them boys from Philly be |
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I'm like cyanide, creeping through the air ducts |
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And I got a foul mouth, tell 'em kids earmuffs |
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When I was at school, I was who to steer clear of |
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Smoking a reefer in the bathroom, sipping Smirnoff |
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When it came time for the pictures in the yearbook |
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I was up in Paris like an American werewolf |
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Years later, yo I'm an American hero verse evil like |
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Deerhoof, if I let the bear woof |
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They don't recognize me when I'm shopping up in Berdgdorf |
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They just know I'm flier than the mother******* airport |
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Therefore they say I'm a sartorial gear whore, yeah |
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(Verse 3: Royce Da 5'9") |
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Uh, Ascots on the tailor suits |
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You artists throwing bands on the radio like they made you |
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I'm looking for artists on stage to throw tomatoes to |
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The way I act you think I'm banned from radio, like Trae Tha Truth |
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I don't really care, *************, I'm getting yen |
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I’ve got a C-63, V-Twizzy Benz I’m sitting in |
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I'on, I'on, I'on give a *************, any DJ anywhere |
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I'on, I'on give 'em as a triple dare, I'll tie him to a swivel chair |
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I'on give 'em spins, ha ha, I'on give 'em grins and count dividends |
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Ask around by them D-Town *************s that'll leave you with a concert |
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Full of dead fans and bloody merch |
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Smoking **** that Celie... That’s the color purp |
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You might wanna study first |
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Every verse lyrical but nutty first |
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Every verb and every word is like a speeding bullet |
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'Bout to chop your body in half while it's on the way to heaven |
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Like Kid Cudi *************rt, *************t could be a hit but it's gotta be money first |
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I rap with a sickness card, Iraq pistol pulling private, shh |
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(Interlude: Royce Da 5'9") |
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Chris, I think I got the Gully curse |
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(Verse 4: Royce Da 5'9") |
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Underground, underrated, y'all keep digging for answers, like the route to cancer |
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I keep turning Preemo beats into chemo treatments, I keep wiggin' like a oop to Andrew |
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I'm clumsy when I shoot, oops, I bet your crew'll scrambled |
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I don't write for limelight, I *************ne the rhyme light down then I'll produce a scandal |
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I'm what your baby moms would do for cameras |
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I'm leaving everything from the marriage to her little cooch in shambles |
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Your posse even get in my broad way your posse'll perish |
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Your posse'll become the posse up there |
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I'm outlining all of they bodies in chalk, setting fire to 'em |
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To the chocolate on top like chocolate eclairs |
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They outfit and jacket is bail staff |
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While we in the air, it's Yahtzee on Lears |
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And when we land, we on yatchs saying grazie to the mail staff |
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Muah, kiss my ass, y'all can go to hell fast |
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I'm just ready for whatever hell brings (Focus, man) |
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Getting closer to that real money like Gayle King (That's Oprah's friend) |
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I think of nightmares that'll ruining your dreams |
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And I just went shopping in China, yeah I flew with the team |
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************* a translator, I speak fluent, cha-ching |
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Y'all holding *************t down with that selfie stick |
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I'm fly in some *************t out of Harvey Nichols and Selfridges |
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Even when me and Shady was Abel and Caine |
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We worked our magic separately like Angel and Blaine |
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Came into this game with a navy like Baby and Wayne |
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Now every pair of glasses I have has a crazy insane Jazze Pha gradient frame |
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The least most amazing vehicle I have is a lease, though |
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It's a beast 4-80 and change |
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Y'all tryna pick up Bieber and Drake fans |
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Not me, but I'm in the streets though, like a Canadian crane |
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To elaborate is to annihilate, please don't make me explain |
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Come get your *************! Before I make her smile, ha |
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'Fore I perform a bunch of acts on her like Saturday Night Live then take a bow |
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Like Kenan Thompson, I don't believe in nonsense |
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I don't got no felonies in my record, I just got a fleeing conscience |
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I'm just out here spending money like I'm being sponsored |
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I'm just on my Philly crime *************t, my ice cold Jack Frost mind |
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My black thoughts are my only real accomplice... |