C What I C

[Intro: Pharoahe Monch] Ah, Pharoahe Monch, yeah [Verse 1: Pharoahe Monch] I said "Yes, yes, y'all, to the beat, y'all" We tryin' to teach the young and get the loot And still be like havin' a ball Hey hey hey We try to walk a little bit like this I say I hate rap promoters, I start to motor Talk from Southside to North Minnesota Dre gramm of yey with a small cup of soda Never get the women with the underarm odor SkyTel Motorola holder who rocks golder than Those who fold when they try to throw me the cold shoulder Try to tell these younger kids cause I'm a little older The war's about to happen and we need our little soldiers [Verse 2: Ras Kass] I riggity-rock, I wriggity-wreck shop (Nah, I'm fuckin' with y'all) I fall through parallel universes with a gun And murder myself to gain strength like Jet Li in "The One" Catch me in ya slum, slumming Sippin' a little some-something Bumping Big Pun it's nothing to front and get to dumpin' Something up in here y'all gon' make me lose my mind Use my nine, and do my time I do my grime, and spit rhymes freaky, air it out Put new holes in conscious rappers' dashikis Be beneath me, no rapper could defeat me Like puttin' your face in feces (I talk shit) Who I be? Real nigga with a fake I.D O.G., B.G., L.A., N.Y.C The matrix is radio and T.V [Chorus: Pharoahe Monch (& Ras Kass)] I see designer glasses, titties, and asses Voluptuous beats, that bumps, that move the masses Disastrous beats that strike; V.I.P. passes It's on (It's on?) It's on (I see sex, money and rhyme, murder and crime Good time, soldiers that grind, for lust for the shine Bentley's, bitches that break ballers All us, wanna be shot-callers, call the coroners) [Verse 3: Pharoahe Monch] They say I was too advanced to advance Now who's the chancellor? You couldn't scrap if you was one of Big Daddy Kane's dancers The answer but not for the '76ers I rip your lips off, stick ya dick in your mouth And put your lips where your dick was, sideways pussy Punks try to provoke, chastise and push me Queens shit (Come on!) Queens shit (Come on!) Fuck around and get your motherfucking spleen split (Come on!) [Verse 4: Ras Kass (& Pharoahe Monch)] Thorough on turntables for technicians to play it Hi-Tek laid for Pharoahe Monch to slay it I'm triple R-rated: Ras Rip Raps Ride Rolls-Royces; Ravenous raps with big racks, really Really, hah, I refuse to rot consumers Cause scorn groupies get mad and spread rumors like "Do you hear what I hear" (I heard gay rapper's a thug, and not a nerd) Can you believe that shit, Monch? (Word, Ras) Word (I heard a lot of murderers ain't really murderers And it's absurd cause they frontin' like they never heard of us) Niggas playin' king-pin but only curb servers or Claim they want beef but really only herbivores If you want to party trunk and wanna get crunked Throw ya hands up! Bitches, throw ya hands up! [Chorus x2: Pharoahe Monch (& Ras Kass)] I see designer glasses, titties and asses Voluptuous beats, that bumps, that move the masses Disastrous beats that strike; V.I.P. passes It's on (It's on?) It's on (I see sex, money and rhyme, murder and crime Good time, soldiers that grind, for lust for the shine Bentley's, bitches that break ballers All us, wanna be shot-callers, call the coroners)