Darth Fanboy wrote:You have to have style while putting the other MCs in denial, you have to stay prolific and come up with a new gimmick, you can't just xerox someone elses flow and if they beg for more never say no, cos a true lyrical master saves your party from disaster, by breaking out rhymes and eloquent funk and never going out like a lame ass punk.
Word to your mother.
It's in the first bar that unknowns'll turn star
That point on the track where the third degree burn starts
When he lay out the legend from the birth of his first scar
to precise date, hour, minute and second he cursed God
From the exact moment his troop learned to surge hard
like Vern Barnes in Two Oh for gold, loot they earn large
And hype is wealth, who wanna argue with that?
Overcharge the pack if a nigga get so unlike'isself
So bad that by Track Five nigga fights'isself
Like God smite his kinfolk, Job despite his health
And I scribed myself, with every check I wrote
Fifty One, nigga, every enemy get ghost
Well read mufucas strewn across the decks I roam
Wide-bodied bitches know all the necks I broke
Nothin livin or dead can affect my flow
My track blast hollows from twin Macs in
the back of the Tahoe, Obi's fat, Black and hostile
If Ox knows a hot flow by how fast his cock grow
This shit's hot lava, son, my tracks pass a Ox load
From the front to the back row, blast back til Pac shows
Game ovah, this ain't for Crayola kids
The day walker clique look like dey ain't get a day older
The game is payola, pay up and pray I
don't speak with breath stank from eight Cobras
The smell so hot the shit creates novas
And a ten o'clock spot after Extreme Make Ovah
One, two, who got more style Nas do?
Stay wit the tunafish, u too short for shark soup
Teeth get knocked loose when Ox move...I'll box through
any cock who thinks dey hot truth, nigga not you
Who can jog through Arista halls with a deck lit
and slit off America's balls before breakfast?
Every fuck widda mic in the world's on my checklist
with dey name next to every flex track I ex'd in
Ayo, X-Man, X-Man...save the Wetlands
the cracked asphalt grass drenched widda blood of ya best fans
Fuck baskets, we play Black Ball
That's nine milli ball shots dug in dey backs, God
I run through Suffolk and Nassau widda Black Sau
Who think I won't eject a cap in dey ass, God,
who think my axe ain't ready to crack off
or I ain't ready to slash the K-Bar cross dey last ball?