8 Steps to Perfection

[Verse 1: Bigg Jus] Rugged like Rwanda Don't wander far or get chopped up Quick to rush the spot like baby urine get mopped up Tags that spray your hall with rap aerosol Organized graffiti lectures in can control Or level with the devil racing uptown first to Fort Apache I'm much too much for any demon style to master me From the Throgs Neck Bridge to the Hell’s Gate, lyrically detonating Sparking M-80's and bottle rockets into nigga chaser Downtown graffiti deface a heroin debaser Open up your eyes and clean out your nature Wide open like the Grand Canyon Emcees couldn't hang if they was lynched by the Grand Dragon Searching for my styles like Job Corps Coming home on work release, shoplifting at the rap store But sabotaging me ain't easy I'm crooked like Nathan Wind starring as Cochese With a big baseball bat, you get robbed like DeNiro A sandwich still ain't nothing but a hero Just a small sample of the abstract When the rhyme get crazy hot and lyrics don't know how to act Whether shooting joints or wax I’ll go all out and attack crabs and herbs that's crazy wack We all can't be pimps and we all can't rap You got to get your dollars on 'cause it's on like that Here's what I want you to do: niggas with the green axe And burgundy 4Runner, inhuman like Blade Runner When I'm rhyming all summer, just listen to the drummer Transistor blister, feedback freak the impedance Funk flow, we expose frequencies in sequence Napalm gets dropped long-range like fiber optics Check the rhyme activity—your skills is microscopic Peace to my crew and my nigga El-P Who's here to spark it, causing all these crabs to flee [Verse 2: El-P] Check it and I inflict it, Quadra 950, lungs misty Color me "Maximilian" 'cause I'm that crazy robot Teetering on the edge of outer space spitting buckshots ‘Til black holes surround me, you found me As far as I'm concerned, I got your ashes in an urn Big up the temperamental, holds-none-barred kid What's your confunction? Tracks is type dusty Drinking water out the well of life and I'ma piss it back rusty Flesh in phonics; you're goddamn right I'm on it Like aorta pacemakers hooked up to clappers Clap off, welcome to my free-form jubilee Look at me, the witness to the shit you wanna be DPA, lyrical P, burners insipid I’m a sycophant, feeding on fats passed and dipped In and out of my invisible state, forerunner rep tyrannical Wrecks like TECs, bust mechanical Rusty garden weasel painting beats on an easel Shoot a head up, what, bitch? You're boxing shadows Look out my way, you’ll pull the breath out your battle Breaking your double helix and now the shit is single Not mono, I burn the needle out your phono El-P the third gunner on the grassy knoll, stroll Keep the Seventh Seal of Heaven in my pocket You're faggot like Sprockets, yo, motherfuck the Houston Rockets I'm so sick of recycled metaphors Bet, but I'd fuck Laura Ingalls, only when she's done with her chores Got rappers tip-toeing on a Highway to Heaven Got manners like Bruce Banner when he's stressed I'm sick of your corny beats and your crowd-involved hooks 'Cause I'm a thinker, evil anus letting off stinkers [Bridge: Bigg Jus & El-P] Eight steps to perfection The sum of each part forms a octagon Let rhyme styles get sparked Eight steps to perfection The sum of each part forms a octagon Where rhyme styles get sparked [Verse 3: Bigg Jus] The holy terror, last move you made was an error, won't win Playing taps on a violin You can never comprehend the rhyme origin Irate when I get Chinese—Jamaican like a Chin Hot rocking corduroy, Ballys that's so fitted Niggas came and assed out my tracks and left 'em shitted Fuck the movement, lubricate the smooth shit Just to let you know, never do I use it Strictly the blueprint for the ghetto music in my cypher Shorty the sniper, Jeep like Cherokee When I take aim handling wall-to-wall emcees Mr. Madman attract lyrics like magnets That fuck up speaker cabinets when I'm stabbing it Like the Juice, then go Bronco busting loose That's my word, you couldn't shoot or try to compute the math To kick any tight sport like the vandal I manhandle, emcees get murdered like Tenor Saw Or trapped in the bedroom with the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, 1-2-3, The Taking of Pelham Eastwick, underground New York be the dwelling I keep telling 'em the state of the mind be the mentals If you murder up in the ghetto, you murder in a temple