ST. . . Termanology. . . J DIlla
I circulate the papes
My mind state concentrate on the paper chase
With good rates on the weight no seed or shave
Hennessey to the face don’t need to chase
My enemies I erase out my mind frame
My style caine on the beat, I step like ten deep
That S and then T, don’t sweat the technique
That’s me, repping that ST (unh)
Went on a brief chase, stashing my briefcase
Hash on my weed’s laced, flashing my deep crates
Like Flex, but I flex album release dates
So damage a beat tapes sampling beat breaks
I check with a weak fake rapper diseased snakes
That ran through the beat game, wacker with each tape
They try to destroy the game with that noise
And blame the bad boys, like Puff the same choice to suck
And make corny rap with shiny suits for loot
And pollute the booth with that music
Losin’ the truest of art in confusion
Do I wanna lie— or give you the truth
Do I wanna fry— or ride in Lex coupes
Let’s choose. I be on the Henny and juice
Grey Goose make you loose with the tongue
So I’m real enough to tell you ain’t nobody doin’ shit where I’m from
Like even my own sons they owe me a fortune
I said when it’s all done they’ll know I am The One
So crucify me, try and design me
And your mind is being grimy, the one you should probably
Try and snake for his papes, you can’t get nothing by me
If you did it feel special, cause homie I let you
I’m a street nigga, which means I done been broke
It don’t mean I shot a nigga every day that I woke
It don’t mean I slang coke every day though I did
For a good amount of time, then I had me a kid
Looked myself in the mirror, like ‘son you could sit up
In the bing doing sit ups in a box with them killers
Or you could reconsider, calm down with the liquor
Brush the coke off the scale, throw that shit up in the river'
How could I go hard without seeing po cars
Just trying to doze off, feds trying to Bogart
My life is trife but I’m destined to know God
So I don’t give a fuck if they hit me with no charge
I’m destined to be what I’m destined to be
So if I’m stretching these beats so effortlessly
And I make it look easy like the homie ED
Stuff the baked ziti, fuck the HPD
Puff the gray seedless dutch with hay steaming
My eyes gleaming, I’m straight leaning
Welcome to another level when I'm MCing
I’m Rakim, LL, and I’m Kool G in
A blender with a semiautomatic four-fever
And a stole Visa, divas catch beatings
Cheeba roll trees, the green is so mean and
Nothing like a joke, I smoke that homegrown
Want that funky cold medina, fuck with Term-lo
Lo. . . now fuck around and get smoked
I come with a razor dripping with AIDS to rip your face up
I got the pistol laid up haters better hit the gym up
Invest in a vest, the best of the best
The recipe just: mix a little cut with the fish
I’m a insane spitter, and I run with them caine dealers
Old school spitters say I remind them of Caine nigga
Politically, analytically I am physically
Every bit of a real MC, trilogy after trilogy
Millimeters to kill MCs willy niggas on MTV
And leaving bodies in the trees. . . with the fleas
Gimme any beat, I’m burying you bastards
Plastic bag rapper, save money on the casket
Homie, I get shady like Cassius
Get them bullets out, Tom Brady type fashion
I ain’t in the whip, Mercedes all flashing
I be in the hood where the .380s is blasted
Mashing, while they call me the truth
Y’all dudes is hardcore, just not in the booth
I’m the supercalifragilistic rich spic
With hits like Will Smith, my chick a bit schiz
But man, she suck dick, lips and big tits
Like Pam, the sick scripts I write is all night
Like my nigga Fat Joe— thank God for that whiiiite!
Motherfucker, damn right
I keep goin’ with deep flowin’ like each poem
Was written by niggas in the pen
Straight blowin’ they time in confinement
The sirens'll blind us they try and combine us
With shine and define us as gangsters and riders
With shanks into violence, we face any problems
With fakes and vaginas
The holes in the loot get you holes in your suit
Where it’s told to the troops never fold or we shoot
Just explode in the booth like your flows is the truth
If you flow for the loot then you’ve chosen the route
Of the evil, conniving deceitful despising
These creeps that be lying with beef they reside in
The bling that they buying, they sing for the diamonds
Is weak as me dying for cheeks that ain’t mine
I'm creeping through Zion, floating through Baghdad
My shoes flying at Bush faster than Arabs
Cash in my safe has gone for a paycheck
As small as a paint chip off of my tape deck
I rhyme with a straightjacket and a face mask
And I ain’t finished til I bodied every beat Jay has
Dilla
