[Intro: KRS-One & Mother Superia]
Yeah, who that over there?
Yo yo yo, who that? Who that over there? Mother Superia
Yo, what up, Goddess? What up?
Yo, what's going on?
(What's up, man?)
(Yo, them beats is the bomb, yo)
What beats? Beats? Did somebody say beats? Can I get some of those beats? That's what I'm here for and I come to check you again
Beats, more beats from the icon
*laughing*
Setting that shit off!
[Verse 1]
Rap is my forte, check portrait, that's on display
This way, Superia flow from here to Mississippi
And stay pretty, prepare for just runnin' scared through the forest
Hearing niggas singing my chorus
Out loud, looking into thе crowd, feeling proud
(No doubt) Fake niggas don't know what that's about
Ass out with your boy scout rhyme pattern
Boycott it, sounding idiotic
My shit gеts exotic like flowers, a little sweet and sour
Bring your heavy duty manpower, I devour
This hour, like the sin, trust wasn't discussed
(Mother Superia, she's down with us)
So what you seeking gots to be a beatin'
Niggas steady speaking but ain't nobody thinkin'
About what they pursuing, nor the outcome of what they doing
Thirty seconds on the mic, whole careers are ruined
And destroyed, contract null and void
Unemployed niggas hanging from my mic cord
Oh Lord, look what done happened
And no thug reaction will let your body fraction, subtractions
Why? MCs getting rubbed off the list, can't coexist
Fucking with the likes of this, you better ask Kris
Get in form, bringing more havoc than Storm
Keep the shit lukewarm, baby boy from the [?]
[Chorus: KRS-One]
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
The club is a skillet where MCs get fried in it
[Verse 2]
Exquisite style, large and enormous
You can swing through, baby, check the performance
Warning to any MC, there's no remedy
For the infectious style that flow through this LP (Come on)
Maybe, lately you been feeling achy
Stuffy head fever, smokin' too much cheeba
Here comes the receiver, catchin' niggas slippin', tippin' scales
Lyrical style sweeter than a bottle of Chanel
No. 5, MCs recognise
Not the Bronx side, they won't be televised
That's for me to advertise
Sex to get a mic check, nigga, what
Bigger cut and we can go lyrically Dutch
Get touched just like the first time all over
29th day of October, gave birth to a soldier
Now a veteran of the culture and the streets
Diggin' beats, making niggas meet the agony of defeat
Repeat, "Mother Superia, you are the epitomy
Of what a real MC is supposed to be"
For the history, emotion, showing my devotion
Filling every jail with my funky emotion
Explosions of compositions well written
Fit for the pickin', yet I'm continuously stickin'
Never forgetting when practice makes perfection
You wack MCs best to grab your protection
[Chorus: KRS-One]
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
Pick up the mic and kill it, ill it, top bill it
The club is a skillet where MCs get fried in it
[Outro]
Word up
Come on up here, come on up here
[?] fuck!
Right here, right fucking here!