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Rhyme to kill, rhyme to murder, rhyme to stomp,
Rhyme to ill, rhyme to romp,
Rhyme to smack, rhyme to shock, rhyme to roll,
Rhyme to destroy anything, toy boy.
On the microphone:
I’m Poppa Large, big shot on the East Coast.
I use a pick in my hair without force.
You use a lawn mower–you got peat moss.
The 808 kick drum makes the girlies get dumb,
We’re rollin’ Rainier, and the jealous wanna get some.
Every time we do the sucka MC’s wanna battle,
I’m the man they love to hate, the J.R. Ewing of Seattle…
Lyrics are weak, like clock radio speakers.
I cannot stand no wack MC.
So step back if you please,
And don’t test me, you’re history.
Too many MC’s take that word ‘emcee’ lightly;
They can’t Move a Crowd, not even slightly.
Your whole vocabulary’s played out, admit it.
Still wack if it came out my mouth and I spit it.
Every little boy wanna pick up the mic,
And try to run with the big boys and live up to the real hype.
But that’s like pickin up a ball, playin with Mike,
Swingin at Ken Griffey or challengin’ Roy to a fight.
It don’t make sense: either you a soldier from the start,
Or a actor with a record deal tryin’ to play the part.
See, you’re out your mind tryin’ to face tha God.
Your rhyme is like an empty prison…a waste of bars.
Hip-hop is universal now, it’s all commercial now.
It’s like a circle full of circus clowns up in the circuit now.