| I’m on top of this |
| Still bird’s eye viewin' it |
| A lot of motherfuckers in this business ain’t true to it |
| Slid 'em a single |
| Yes it wasn’t major |
| And we still ain’t gettin' no love by player haters (Fat Beats) |
| Fool we ain’t ballin' |
| We just rip shows out of the country while you fallin' |
| Standin' strong and clown silly hoes |
| If you don’t know who we is by know you’ll never know |
| Most got the bump but what? |
| We got the slump niggas sellin' these tapes |
| Till I can dump figures down on my laptop |
| Laptop stay by me |
| Yes I’m bout the benjamins |
| But never assemble them |
| In amounts more than ten Gs |
| Government satellites pick that shit up |
| Throw you on their TVs |
| Yes the metal strip, you thought they did it |
| To stop counterfeit |
| How they gonna put my ass out a job? |
| I jog cougar |
| RPC competition with the KF7 Soviet |
| Opponents get ripped inside of the basement |
| Chasin' down the wrong corridor |
| How many times? |
| Do the Legends go into 64 |
| Eight |
| More MCs |
| Master Citizens |
| Slaughterin' buzz |
| You get plugged like live and direct from the Truman Show |
| A human though |
| Homo superior |
| My syonic energy overwhelms thee inferior |
| «Revenge» |
| Withering syllables spring lifeless |
| Timeless satirical laughter at your style |
| Is screwed, failed to move the crowd |
| Serial digits |
| Been scratched off the wagon |
| So the dust becomes your company |
| Title «Some MC» |
| Rival enemies loud |
| Enemy cracks |
| ? doesn’t stat the facts |
| So lax |
| Down to the deepest part of tax |
| Repeat the slack off |
| Let my reality slump |
| Without the bass |
| The mist they jack off |
| Float so endless in this time and space |
| Disgrace |
| In innovative excitement takes place |
| Energy level’s low |
| Don’t get the concept |
| Reaping what you sow |
| So, the final blow |
| Remainders angered at the cost |
| Toss their luck to perfect strangers |
| But this pro won’t take a loss |
| Virtually, the whole meaning of fresh rests within |
| The music that we blend in the background |
| Sounds tight |
| Yeah tight |
| Tighter than your show that we ripped up last night |
| Fight for your chance to evolve, I’ll call your name out |
| You’se about a bitch ass |
| No rhymin' rapture |
| Bout to get big off some wack shit, it’ll never work |
| While I’m tellin' you |
| You better listen boy |
| Or you get rushed |
| Cup the mic like them other toys |
| While the beat’s slumpin' |
| These niggas sayin' somethin' intelligent |
| Relevant to the elegant math have you highly out classed |
| Pressurized writing |
| Skills igniting, thrill feeling from the inside |
| Bring the slump quick ride |
| I’m sittin' on vinyl doin' donuts on the table when they go nuts |
| And I’m stable otherwise I’m insecure |
| But |
| Just a little bit, I spit it and get cocky |
| Geeks and weirdos jock me |
| Help me clock these zeros |
| These big ideas I draw close, saw |
| Most of y’all was peepin' |
| I came raw no flaws |
| A little if any |
| I’m not riddled to skinny |
| The pots there for the takin' who’s slump is earthquakin'? |
| Makin' decisions my vision is too broad for that |
| Fuck just respect, I make you wanna applaud my raps |
| And ain’t no dogs or gats |
| Makin' noise here |
| I’m poised, fear the sense it made |
| Call your defense brigade |
| «Revenge!» |
| These motherfuckers! |
| Is underground with no freestyle |
| Freestyles with no style |
| I’m smakin' cream pies |
| Trackin' curly fries |
| Tryin' to french fry their way to the top of the cherry pie |
| Fools is slimy |
| Like 106 |
| Smoke a beadie and chill |
| Pray your chicken ass, the industry don’t kill |
| 4001 ways to kill your ass |
| Still the Legends |
| With mass appeal |
| When underground tapes will end up deep |
| Producing? see through poetic words a still leak |
| Like time after time |
| Every line you say you can’t back up |
| Blow your track up |
| You signed and wack as… fuck |
| Like airplane food |
| Brussels sprouts and? |
| I’m gumbo and crawfish |
| Living words yellow back mule |
| Punk DJ |
| You’re on the dick of your commercial radio station play |
| Everything but locals say |
| Run around and ask about some underground, love |
| Let’s put on some boxing gloves |
| Gerry Cooney |
| I’m Julio Chavez |
| Body blow body blow |
| Awe yeah |
| I took a Rittlin and still in |
| And you bite so much you used to be thinner |
| There was a sinner |
| It’s a girl beginner |
| You’re an evil captain |
| Penetratin' my shit up |
| Cause I keep my ear to the ground |
| Ha ha ha |
| Check out my Bizarre-o |
| So now some of you might be wondering |
| What is this beat bumpin' |
| This so called slump thing? |
| What I mean is |
| There’s a million and four reasons so get with it |
| If it passed you up on the charts, we might just quit it |
| Shit, I mean spit it |
| At a show for the true fans |
| Or spin it on the radio while you scratch with your two hands |
| But this disc jock |
| Be commanding respect |
| And if you ain’t got service yet |
| Then you best to go out and get it |
| Shit |
| «Revenge» |
| Where you goin' where you goin' |
| Revenge Revenge |