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I throw raps that attack like the Japs on Pearl Harbor.
MC’s be out like bank robbers,
Fleeing the scene, to be a sole survivor;
DJ…the getaway driver.
We were at the same table when the chips were checked,
A gamblin’ rebel who inspects the deck.
Just when you thought we would fold our hand,
Against all odds, we raised the bet like we changed the plans.
It was live on air, but in between station breaks,
I was holdin a pair and just made the table stakes.
Split the demos, put insurance on tapes,
A safeguard against the crusaders in capes.
If I double-down, they say the Gods are sharks;
If we win against the house, they thought the cards was marked.
We draw hit after hit from a royal flush menu,
While the dealer promoted the full house venue.
A spade in the club with the heart to wear diamonds,
The high roller who got credit upon signin’.
They look puzzled when I shuffle, most of ‘em stunned by the hustle,
Recourse of bluff game’s your muscle.
Ghostface, catch the blast of a hype verse,
My glock bursts, leave in a hearse, I did worse.
I come rough, tough like an elephant tusk,
Ya head rush, fly like Egyptian musk.
The God’s tropical…ladies call me ‘Black Fruit Punch.’
I judge wisely…as if nothin ever surprise me,
Loungin, between two pillars of ivory.
I’m lively, my dome piece is like buildin stones in Greece.
My poems are deep, from ancient thrones I speak.
Now what Clan you know with lines this ill?
Bust shots at Big Ben, like we got time to kill.
Keep my planets in orbit,
Never forfeit or quit,
Move forward…
I talk with the awkward slang,
I walk with the Wu-Tang.
Like my man Muhammad from Afghanistan:
Grew up in Iran, the nigga runs a neighborhood newsstand.
A wild Middle Eastern…bomb specialist,
Initiated at eleven to be a terrorist.
He set bombs in bottles of champagne
And when niggaz popped the cork, niggaz lost half they brains.
Niggas is decaf, I stick ‘em for the C.R.E.A.M.
This is doomsday for MCs with hollow skills,
Who talk about clothing articles and dollar bills,
And fake ass rides that they don’t even drive.
Hip-hop is war and only strong MCs will survive.
I’m on some tax-free shit by any means,
Whether bound to hit scheme or some counterfeit C.R.E.A.M.
Look here: “Mo’ money, mo’ problems,” my ass.
You’s a naive cat if you still believe that.
I was always taught my do’s and don’ts:
For do’s I did, and for don’ts, I said I won’t.
Lyrics are weak, like clock radio speakers.
I’m your Mr., you my Mrs. with hugs and kisses,
Valentine cards and birthday wishes?
Please…be on another level of planning, of understanding
The bond between man and woman and child.
The highest elevation, cause we above
All that romance crap, just show your love.
Smell the pinetrees in the air, sleigh bells are ringing,
Toy stores are out of control, and kids singing.
That night before Christmas, dashing through the snow,
Rudolph the Reindeer, red nose that glow.
It’s all about the candy canes and Christmas list,
North Pole and that chubby, jolly, old Saint Nick,
The little elves getting busy, in Santa workshop
And how gingerbread men keep they buttons on top.
Wooden soldiers and chestnuts, roasting like marshmallows
Goodfellas, chocolate pudding pops and Jell-O’s.
It’s the gift, the cookies and milk on the mantle,
The mistletoe, that scent from that peppermint candles,
That warm French vanilla, mean coat with zippers,
Bareskin robe dragon with Versace slippers.
Around the fireplace we breathe, shirts are short sleeve,
We stayin’ up all night on Christmas Eve!
A born terror, a rebel without a pause…
Ain’t never had a good Christmas, so who is Santa Claus?
I be tossin’, enforcin’, my style is awesome.
I’m causin’ more Family Feuds than Richard Dawson.
And the survey said: “You’re dead.”
Fatal Flying Guillotine chops off your fuckin’ head!
I come strong, I make knowledge born,
I flip the script and rock on
From P.M. past to fucking Dawn.
Doin forever shit: like pissin out the window on turnpikes,
Robbin niggaz for leathers, high swipin on dirt bikes.
I smoke on the mic like Smokin’ Joe Frazier,
The hell raiser, raisin’ hell with the flavor.
Too many songs, weak rhymes that’s mad long.
Make it brief son: half short, twice strong!
First of all, who’s your A&R?
A mountain climber who plays an electric guitar?
But he don’t know the meaning of dope,
When he’s lookin for a suit and tie rap
That’s cleaner than a bar of soap!
And I’m the dirtiest thing in sight,
Matter of fact, bring out the girls and let’s have a mud fight.
I call my brother ‘Sun’ cause he shine like one.
I stay dipped like the first day of school.
I got a smile that’ll make the mirror crack,
And I seem to stay under clouds that’s pitch black.
So when it rains, it pours, and when it pours, I’m soaked.
I contracted lung cancer from third hand smoke,
And I’m like the frog that’s dying to be a prince,
The boy who cried wolf and no one was convinced.
The man who hit lotto and lost his ticket,
In a rainstorm…and struck by lightning trying to get it.
I’m the one-man army Ason
I’ve never been tooken out…I keep MC’s lookin’ out.
I drop science like girls be dropping babies,
Enough to make a nigga go craaaaazy!
Roll big blunts, a whole ounce of reefer
Rocked that ‘Black and Yellow’ before Wiz Khalifa
It’s a killer bee color scheme
Can you cook darlin? At the stove you’re revolvin’…
Bake macaroni, turkey wings, a nigga starvin
Here take my number, let me pull the chair from under
I had fun, plus your backyard speak with thunder!
This is a robbery, boy, gimme them dollars.
We hit the lottery, boy, it’s in ya wallets!
Nowadays, you gots ta walk the street and watch your back,
Cause brothers with the gats don’t be knowin’ how to act.
Leave it up to me while I be livin’ proof,
To kick the truth to the young black youth.
Took two drags off the blunts, and started breaking down the flag:
The blue is for the Crips, the red is for the Bloods,
The whites for the cops, and the stars come from the clubs
Or the slugs that ignite, through the night,
By the dawn early light, why is sons fighting for the stripe?
I won’t hesitate to detonate, I’m short fused.
You’re out of luck like two dogs stuck.
Raw I’mma give it to ya, with no trivia.
Raw like cocaine straight from Bolivia.
There are few things that’s forever, my lady.
We can make war or make babies.
If you can’t live, you dying,
You give or you buy in.
Keep it real or keep it moving,
Keep grinding, keep shining.
Microphone checka, swingin’ sword lecture,
Closin’ down the sector, supreme neck protector.
Better warn ‘em kid…Mr. Meth’s a boiling pot
About to blow his lid from the pressure.
You can see the weakness of a man right through his iris.
Make peace not war, make babies some more, Keep a smile when you travel from shore to shore.
My peoples: if you with me where the fuck you at?
Full moons, skunk weed all up in the room;
You got the munchies, baby? Ice cold milk and Lorna Doones.