Thanks to jhsantos@sol.com.br for these lyrics.



Emcee's no time out,it's time to rhyme out

You've dug your own grave,now you must climb out

Dig out,crawl out,hide from the fallout

'Cause when I get mad I go all out

ICE cooler than the coldest cube,dude

And when I'm micin',boy,I'm know to get rude

Criminal background,it's time to get down

I use a silencer,don't like the loud sound

Off my mic blast,you better run fast

The last punk that popped junk passed

Spit on his grave,laughed,jumped in my stretch

Signed his bitch an autograph

Syndicate boy,I don't fool out

You're full grown,school's out

You try to diss?..I think you better cool out

'Cause your butt is smoke,if we ever duel out

This jam is directed,to all of those who expected

For me to cold be rejected,but now I'm highly respected

And now their ears are infected

With dollar signs I've collected

Jealous punks,I said it!



Personal

Take a personal



Take it personal,punk,I'm talkin' to you

And if they agree with you,then your crew too

I never diss an emcee,I wish'em all good luck

But if you diss me to my face,duck

My style don't ramble,you shouldn't gamble

With your grill,I got a fist like an anvil

I write a record,lock it on the topic

EVIL and IZ dog the track,then we drop it

Record stores rock it,stock it,fans buy it

People that never heard of ICE-T try it

Then you try to diss? You got gall

I got gold on my neck and gold on my wall

Gold in my fingers,gold in my ear

When this jam's spinnin',gold's what you hear

Toy,this ain't Christimas,no time to play

I ain't no child,punk,you'll get sprayed

Illin' on a mega-villan

You must want a pine box to go chill in

Buried deep,creep,no one will weep

'Cause the next night with your bitch I'll sleep



Personal

Take it personal



I ain't East Coast,West Coast,new style,or old style

You wanna know about me? Check police files

Get out my face or you might have a bruised one

Brass knuckle prints? Yes,I used some

I ain't here to boast,I don't do that

When I talk it's straight dope,pure facts

I rock hard but still called a new jack

But talk shit,you're sure to get heard cracked

I don't drink or smoke or do dumb drugs

But my posse's still labeled street thugs

L.A.P.D's got all my boy's mugs

Can't use my phone for the damn bugs

I live in privacy,don't like suckers hawking me

News reporters,some think they can talk for me

Lies,misquotes,changin' all my words around

But if I catch'em on the street they'll get beat down

They get money for hype-type publicity

They don't think twice,about dissin' me

But that's a mistake,with tha SYNDICATE you shoudn't mess

I hope those punk reporters wear vests!



Personal

Take that personal





Now the words I speak to some may sound radical

But I'll explain,it's simply mathematical

You diss,I diss,this is creates an equal

You reply to my diss,this is called a sequel

I reply to your diss,this is called a battle

Not intelligent,not very adult

So I don't battle,I just put heads out

A straight line is always the direct route

I write lyrics clear,to leave no doubt

Don't even have to say who I'm speakin' about

You know who you are,you just jealous

'Cause you hear my records are million sellers

Try to say I'm wack,out on the streets

While your whole crew is jockin' my beats

See me on T.V. and in the papers

See me at a jam,and catch vapors!



Personal