Adjust that treble right now adjust the bass

Turn it up stop frontin

C'mon turn it up

Alright check it out ninety three lyrics here we go

Bo!



I never want a jheri curl up under my hat

The woman in my bed has got to be strictly black

I never want money if my lyrics are wack

So I must roc the mic

I play only the reggae and I play only rap

I rock the African the European, and Jap

Beneath I got to show you that I am all that

So I must, roc, the mic



Are you tired of lyrical liars, passing fliers

Wannabe MC's, but really good triers

Tripping over mic cords, getting you bored

A total fraud, this kind of thing I can't afford, so I

pick up the mic and kill it ill it top bill it

The cough is a skillet, where MC's get fried in it

You got beef chill it, blood I spill it

After seven long years of ripping the party and I'm still widdit

You call my name I don't think about suing ya

I come to the club with that BOOYAKA

Laughing while I'm doin ya the crowd is booin ya

Gimme one month, record for record on tape I'll ruin ya

Some likkle awl pon sound bwoy wan fi rule de city

His style is lookin pretty beats and rhymes are dibby dibby

Here comes the rootical ratical teacha

I'll eat ya defeat ya beat ya till ya stagger and ya teeth chatter

You'll be goin through convulsions as I flash data

Any rapper can be a decapitated rapper now what's the matter

You're full of more junk than a sausage

Let me show you what a real hip-hop artist



*DJ Premier cuts and scratches