It's on..

[Cappa] Where your sparkle at kid?

Ryzarector..



[Break: Raekwon the Chef]

Yes the shit is raw, comin at your door

Start to scream out loud, Wu-Tang's back for more

Yes the hour's four, I told you before

Prepare for mic fights (and plus the cold war)



[Verse One: U-God]

This rhyme you digest through the RZA console

Ask why I slam nine diagram pole

Raekwon dropped the bomb, Hunchback, Norte Dame

Golden Arms is bronze, buddah palm hit Qu'ran

It blows extreme, mean stream be the theme

Supreme team, America's Cream Team, redeemed

Vidal Sassoon, chrome tones hear the moans of Al Capone

Gun POW to the dome

And split the bone, wig blown off the ledge

By the alledged, full-fledged, sledge RZA edge

One dose of my feroc(ious) handheld trigga cuts

Acapella spittin shell paralyzed when you get touched

And critical mic cords, hangin like umbilical

Cords, dope swords, five star general

Raw be the quote rap style sore throat

Through the fully operational, hand held tote mm-hmm



[Break: (first two lines)]



[Verse Two: Ghostface Killah]

More than a thousand times one, snatch up my styles get done

I hold a title, enhanced how my belt was won, check it

Slick majestic, broke mics are left infected

Germs start to spread through your crew, drew like an epic

You asked for it, shot up the jams like syringes

My technique alone blows doors straight off the hinges

Masked Avenger, I appear to blow your ear like wind

With a freestyle, sharper than the Indian spear

So sit back and let the king explore

Describe me, the kid's nice and he holds swords

And his name, black attack's the nerve like migraines

With more games than beggars on trains, livid sharp pains

Poisonous Rebel like Deck, you can't destroy this

You get ambushed, skate, try to avoid this

Side effects of, hot raps and hot tracks

A duffle bag full of guns son, dipped in black

My culture, glides and attacks just like a vulture

Ghostface in Madison Square is on your poster



[Break]



[Verse Three: Masta Killa]

Be on the lookout for this mass murderous suspect

That fills more body bags than apartments in projects

And as far as the coroners know

The autopsy show, it was a Shaolin blow

Put on by my family brought to the academy

of the Wu and learned how to

fuck up yo' anatomy, steadily, calm and deadly

Spatter-head lyrics I lick through your transmit

MC's submit to the will as I kill your

juvenile freestyle, civilize the men-tal

Devils worship this like an icon

Bear-huggin mics with the grips of a python



[Break]



[Verse Four: Cappadonna]

You heard of the rasp before but kept waitin

for the sun of song, I keep dancehalls strong

Beats never worthy of my cause, I prolong

Extravangza, time sits still

No propoganda, be wary of the skill

As I bring forth the music, make love to your eardrum

Dedicated to rap nigga beware of the fearsome

Lebanon Don, Malcolm X beat threat

CD massacre, murder to cassette

I blow the shop up, you ain't seen nuttin yet

One man ran, tryin to get away from it

Put your bifocal on, watch me a-cometh

into your chamber like Freddy enter dream

Discombumberate your technique and your scheme

Four course applause, like a black dat to dat

You're stuck on stupid like I'm stuck on the map

Nowhere to go except next show bro

Entertainin motherfuckers can't stop O

in battlin, you don't want me to start tattlin

All upon the stage cause y'all snakes keep rattlin

Bitch, you ain't got nothin on the rich

Every other day my whole dress code switch

So just in case you want to clock me like Sherry

All y'all crab bitches ain't got to worry

Can't get a nigga like Don dime a dozen

Even if I'm smoked out I can't be scoped out

I'm too ill, I represent Park Hill

See my face on the twenty dollar bill

Cash it in, and get ten dollars back

The fat LP with Cappachino on the wax

Pass it in your think, put valve up to twelve

Put all the other LP's back on the shelf

And smoke a blunt, and dial 9-1-7

1-6-0-4-9-3-11

And you could get long dick hip-hop affection

I damage any MC who step in my direction

I'm Staten Island's best son fuck what you heard

Niggaz still talkin that shit is absurd

My repotoire, is U.S.S.R.

P.L.O. style got thrown out the car

and ran over, by the Method Man jeep

Divine can't define my style is so deep

like pussy, my low cut fade stay bushy

like a porcupine, I part backs like a spine

Cut you like a blunt and reconstruct your design

I know you want to diss me, but I can read your mind

Cuz you weak in the knees, like SWV

Tryin to get a title like Wu Killa Bee

Kid change your habit, you know I'm friends with the Abbott

Me and RZA ridin name printed in the tablet

under vets, we paid our debts for mad years

Hibernate the sound, and now we out like beers

and blunt power, born physically power speakin

The truth in the song be the pro-black teachin