Awwww....yeaaaah...
Who is the man with the hats with the snaps,
droppin` the raps with the truth, to the youth that`s bustin` the caps?
Who could it be? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Is it a tree?
No, it`s me: Capital-A, capital-S, capital-E.
Boomin` like thunda, strikin` like lightnin`.
Welcome to my Slaughtahouse, I know it`s frightenin`.
I`m hittin` em over the head with lyrical styles like a bottle.
My foot`s on the pedal, my hand is on the throttle.
I`m turbo-boostin` from Houston to Vegas.
You want us to quit, but shit, you can`t make us.
There`s too much money to make, money to get, money to earn.
My pockets are on E, and I want money to burn.
I got GUSTO, plus yo, I`m zeekin` `em.
Rollin` with L.D., Ken, Eyce, and Neek and `em.
Phat tracks, I`m freakin` `em, word to your auntie.
It`s written all over your face, I know you want me.
Scientifical mathematical war.
Rhymes and beats harder than Trigonometry 4.
So open your books to page one, and I`ll show you how it`s done,
it`s the roughneck kid without a gun.
I`m laughin`-- ha ha! -- it`s fun to watch you weep as
you`re cryin`, dyin`, try and figure out the Jeep Ass
Nig-guh, bigger and better and badder than ever before,
hittin` with hardcore lyrical calesthenics that make me sore.
And the shower of fire, supplier of the real,
get with the program and I`m slammin` like Shaquille.
Right on your head, do what I said, backin` me up is the D:
(Lord Digga:)You must be crazy if you wanna mess with me.
Cuz I am not the one, kid.
Oh no, he ain`t the one, son.
The shank in my sock will chop you like an onion.
So Boom, head for the hills, head for the freakin` border.
I slaughter, like Great White Sharks, I`m makin` sparks.
Refrain: 4x
Comin` from the Big East, boy, we ain`t slippin`.
(Don`t you know?) Don`t even think about it, yeah.
As I walk through Brooklyn, Compton or whatever,
I wonder why black folks don`t wanna stick together.
We talk about justice, and how little we get,
yet black men be killin` black men for talkin` shit... (right...right...)
(Here`s the one, that one that always talkin` shit...) [gun shots]
How the hell we supposed to wage war against the powers that be
when we are still our own worst enemy.
That`s why I`m the Masta, I`m tryin` to tell you kid,
I`ll break it down simply, right back to the freestiddyle.
I`m bashin` --BREAKIN`-- I`ll fry you like bacon.
I don`t smoke blunts, boy, you must be mistaken.
I do smoke mics and MCs that come widdem.
I hit `em and get `em and sit `em down, then I spit `em
out some lyrical phlegm from deep within me.
I`m not John, but I`m Madd-en I`ll give you Moore than Demi.
I burn like tobasco, your ass, yo don`t beg (?)
Miss Crabtree, Stumpy said you had a wooden leg.
So I brought my axe and a box full of termites,
cuz I got your big, fat booty in my sites.
I`m not from Philly, but I fly like an Eagle,
my rap book is thicker than a catalog from Spiegel.
A Regal, I do not drive, I drive a Jeep and
I should say drove one, some suckers caught me sleepin`.
But next time they break in my car to rip the Ase off,
I`ll have a pitbull waitin` to rip their freakin` face off.
(Sick `em boy...) [barking and yelling]
Refrain 4x
(On and on and on, it`s on... On and on and on, it`s on...)
