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Concentration, a method I use to allude |
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Or confuse or remove a sucker away from my crew |
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No mercy, I'm givin no slack to those who wack |
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Flinch an inch and get beat with a bat |
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Now here's a mellow rhyme I slapped together a few minutes ago |
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Pertainin to those who dissed the Low Pros |
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Kept us on hold, called us dead broke, yo |
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You know punk, I got the right to take your life on the go |
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Cause you'se a perpetrator, you ain't down, you're just around |
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And by, you step off, punk, before you get beat down |
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Brutally dissed, not only mental, but physical |
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Brought face to face to the 5'10" lyrical |
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WC, now it feels, hey yo, check it |
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When you mention my name, think of a full metal jacket |
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Not mislead, I improvise and many buy it |
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But don't slip unless you wanna see a riot |
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Smile in my face, you're nothin but a backstabber |
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Roamin around sayin that I'm a weak rapper |
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To solo artists and crews and those who never heard of me |
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I'm here to say that the W is givin no mercy |
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(He's got style |
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He's got grace |
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He's got humor |
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And he understands his format) |
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[VERSE 2: WC] |
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Picture flames steadily burnin in front of your dome |
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Intensity is growin and growin, the heat is gettin strong |
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You're trapped inside, have lost your breath |
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Lookin at death, cause on the Dub you slept |
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And overlooked the professional |
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But see, I kept comin, yo |
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Lyrics so fly that shoulda been on _That's Incredible_ |
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Now why would a sucker wanna battle the Dub? |
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You're just a featherweight, or better yet a scrub |
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A snob, I dedicate, not perpetrate, get it straight |
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To you '89 rappers, y'all ain't all that great |
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Want a l, I meet your rhymes at the hip-hop shows |
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With styles that played out with Gladys Knight and the afros |
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You ain't down, punk, you're not invited |
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You're jokin my rhymes, all you wanna do is bite it |
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Correspondin to my rap, the need to adapt |
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Comprehending to my English, I'm not talkin in Japanese |
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Or Chinese, I'm speakin of a disease |
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Called 'perpetratin', you punk MC's |
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Yo, the W strikes like a sword, just rippin and shrippin |
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You phoney rappers in half, y'all be trippin |
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Like little women, feminine punks, you need to quit |
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I want the mic like a basehead want a hit |
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Versatility, ability makes it hard to step to me |
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Step off, you're soft, go face humility |
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Really see, you wanna be jocks of impurity |
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Step towards the Dub - aw man, that's stupidity |
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Mentality gotta be growin strong, stop gaggin me |
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Strategy: seek, destroy comp's a dead tragedy |
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Rhyme designer, I didn't climb to encline |
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Here's some old school stuff, y'all, to mess with your mind |
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Like poison or Raid, but too bad, I don't spray no mo' |
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Now I throw grenades and carry .44's |
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Bro, you're too slow, hit the danceflo' |
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It's time for the W, wax and tax shows |
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Solo artists and crews and those of you who heard of me |
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I'm here to say that the W is givin no mercy |
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(There is nothing abnormal about the way that he talks |
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He doesn't talk abnormally fast |
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He doesn't talk slow |
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He just talks to the people) |
