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Verse One: Tame One, El the Sensai |
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*reggae growl* I diss batty bwoys like Buju |
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Banton, rippin wan-tan destruction |
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Sag my pants to stop the suction plus it's quicker when I'm f**kin |
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Split Dutch Master faster I puff izz that causes asthma as dust |
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Some say from NJ, quick to give up papes |
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Beef'll keep it street, defeat niggaz who sleep |
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or reap the concrete status kick your ass with my apparatus |
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Those who, oppose this, split their shit like Moses |
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My written tabs is rippin fags and the whole bit |
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I murder mics and tape decks, so check it while I wrecks it |
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far from junkies keep it real because I'm hungry like the Bundy's ("Al!!") |
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Got more rumble than thunder crumple chumps like they was paper |
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Eight for keys, make G's, but One of Tame made these |
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Conjunction junction what's your function on the real |
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My mass appeal is real I swim through beats like Navy Seals |
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Irregular, my style, suckers competitors who think they better |
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I knit my skit, like my Grandma's sweater |
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Nuts who want to inflict, harm against the charmer |
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Best to rest their case because I wear medieval armor |
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To protect, my subjects, my style's quite hard |
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Never could you copy cause my style's quite odd |
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Select the best concepts, context to rhyme text |
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Plus a twenty dollar bet, niggaz flexi wit da tech |
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Chorus: samples of Jeru the Damaja and BizMarkie |
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"The tech's technique, cause he's a technician" |
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"One two, whatcha gonna do" |
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(repeat 4X) |
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Verse Two: El the Sensai, Tame One |
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I rip rhyme charts apart, I jump-start on the gunner |
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Arrest niggaz like Honda from the under never blunder wonder if |
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I get stiff, I'm bound to catch an L |
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Nah never that I'm down with Tame I'm MC El |
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Lately playin Hurricane G demos in my WalkMan |
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I walk and I talk and read issues of The Source and |
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check out the dreadlocks in Bedrock puffin indo |
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by the branch like plants, and do the cypher dance |
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Then it's back to the set, to write raps about my eps |
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Takin tokes for the stress as I get flexi wit da tech |
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Ah, I whip the lyrics up, like batter chatters on the verge |
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I sink all ships and watch you crabs submerge |
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in depths of the boat doper ropes to distort |
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All sorts of brothers abuse my styles I must abort |
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I do jobs like miles around the necks of the title |
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I win it hands down and pants down cause I'm vital |
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The tech, might you wanna get mad, now freak the plannin |
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Plus I flips it skip the handscans I'm woozy when I'm splifted |
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Yeah still high the ill fly, red-eye rundown a semi |
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Automatic Artifact with knaps causin heart attacks |
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to critics and honeydips, who jeered on my lyrics |
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And slept when I dropped that "Do You Wanna Hear It?" |
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Cause from sun-up to sundown, my eyes are red and rundown |
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I still smoke a pound if strong peeps hit the town |
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I'm flexible like every female Huxtable was f**kable |
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Impeccable, dispicable, on point like a decimal |
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Point twice the joint jumper nicest with the mic device |
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Mighty like Isis, gimme boom I rips a crisis with the stress |
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(with the stress) unless I'm gettin flexi wit da tech |
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Chorus |
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Shut up, you're talkin too loud, you're talkin too loud |
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Peace to the whole city of Newark |
