Verse One: Malik B



Yo, I'm every MC, it's all in me

That's the way it is, when ya gotta be

Indeed as I distort I proceed, I need

Gettin hotter than sacks of boom, in my room at the Ramada

Four tanks in your memory banks to fill up

I provide the static, with scratch to match, while you catch the vibe

Most can play high post, but yo that don't mean shit

Because my click'll make a motherfucker sick

I flips, redder than pork, comin to New York to mix

[It's Bob Powers] With the snares and kicks to fix

Rhythmatically, you got ta be, static-y

Magiccally I appear, spark a L and drink a beer

With air smooth, takin niggaz loot with dice

then shoot The Roots, poetic, courageously kinetic

Vagabond, versatile and various, plus rap styles

of mine are blunt, pain is in the mind, so I'm fine and five

Foot seven, inches in height

My mission to strike mics and lighten your tights

Ridin in, like lightning

Flourescent, incandescent, evervescently

I represent, Foreign Objects and Ill Elements

Very relevant, plus intelligently managin matter

that's makin tracks fatter, revolve around

Saturn like rings and brins swings when I sings with bass

Then distort up in your face like mace

Bustin your dreams, I gasp with loaded magazines

I'm on the rap scene, re-color fellas like a vaccine

As I, rocks from under blunderin I'm not, lyrically

Ya getm, shot, get caught so distort with thought, for real

It's the illest out the Phi, short for Philidelph-iada-fly

Money makin move fakin I isn't

Niggaz can nah front, I'm poetically exquisite

Wicked, with the visit while you're wonderin what is it

Dig it, yo my mellow um whattup for the night

[Malik B, get on the mic, get on the mic]

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