Slap Them Up

[Intro: DJ Premier & KRS-One] Tellin' it like it is, right about now DJ Premier is in the Motherfuckin' house and shit, ya know what I'm sayin'? But yo Yo Kris, run that shit, ya know what I'm sayin'? That, that shit My joint. Run that motherfucker...it's only right kid... (Do it, do it, do it...) Drop that bassline... You want lyrics? We give ya lyrics. Check it out now, one time... (Do it, do it, do it...) [Chorus: KRS-One] When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy! Gal! Will ya come slap dem up When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy! Ill Will, slap dem up [Verse 1: Ill Will Fulton & KRS-One] MC's get ate, get broken like a pretzel And get dissed if they ever try to step to They can't take a MC with loose lips Talk a lotta shit, but sink no motherfuckin' ships Lyrics make bigger holes than hollow tips Watch another rapper body get stiff Just like in church, we pass the basket As I preach over his casket Fuck it, kick the body right over And say "See ya, hmm...nice to know ya" Got another rapper to see Yo Kris, bust that ass [Verse 2: KRS-One] Certainly Either shit or get off the pot Let the original rapper rock the spot You stand there and jock, goin' *mumbles* This is absolutely ludicrous, what can you do to KRS Chattin' foolishness, step along quick with that stupidness It's me reppin' this for self, where else ya lookin'? I got more rhymes than all the Jamaicans in Brooklyn So beat it or be seated, G, I'm mad undefeated Young boy, you can't see me, run along and make pee-pee I was rockin' rhymes when "La-Di-Da-Di" was a demo Admit you been on my tip for years and just can't seem to let go Go, go call your mother, tell her you wanna battle KRS quick I bet the minute you get home you'll get your ass whipped Crazy ill mad styles is what I give 'em Not a run-of-the-mill'em, I drill 'em, I got ridiculous rhythm None of my styles you can get with'em Still um, will um, your crew come get some so I can kill'em [Verse 3: Ill Will Fulton] Well I roll by myself but don't let it fool ya If I got beef my crew'll damn step to ya We don't play no games, I'll come straight to your rest Lift up your shirt and blast you in your chest [Verse 4: KRS-One] Well that was fresh A fad doesn't fill the bill, but mad skills will Don't let me have to kill you kid, god forbid still Greed will lead your need to succeed But your speed, your speech Your outreach is a breach of what I teach For lyrical styles, you're a leech If I was Spanish I'd say, "You rhyme like a beech" Wow-wow-wow-wow, wow-wow-wow, wow-wow-wow... Wow, for a amateur you really looked hard But you're really a bitch, when you get it together Call me, here's my card Check the list: you lack breath control, mental behavior Lyrical talent, imagination, and flavor I got no time for amateur rhyme, you could be hurt Thinkin' you're hard because you wear a gangsta T-Shirt I'll smash your wannabe ass in the deep dirt Black, you'll come up dizzy sayin' "How da fuck he do dat?" 'Cause you're yappin' like you can't be reached If your name ain't Arrested Development, well save your speech Time to ill, I got mad skills to fill Not a fake, I got more styles than Drake's got tasty cakes Gotta be the best, G, don't try to test me You'll get jacked son, even if your name is not Jesse Let's be up front when I meet ya Peace, uh, I'm the motherfuckin' teacher [Chorus: KRS-One] When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy! Gal! Will ya come slap dem up When we come in all de dance 'nuff D.J.'s shut up, woy! Gal! Will ya come slap dem up, up, up, up, up... (Do it, do it, do it...) [Outro] Yo...South Bronx, South South Bronx South Bronx, South South...yo, Uptown Brooklyn's in the house, lemme tell ya 'bout Staten Island What about...Queens? (Do it, do it, do it...) (Do it, do it, do it...)