[Intro: El-P as robotic commander]
Mr. Len, A.K.A. "Space Ghost" – please commence intro.
Company Flow – perform.
J-Treds – prepare.
El-P – prepare.
You have approximately five minutes.
Fuck the bullshit.
Time-Warner will fall.
Record labels will fall.
Earth will crumble.
Begin.
[Verse 1: El-P]
Enter the all-city access and uncapper the likes of these
Regionally, no more molasses action
No wonder I'm a type to crush contenders for pure chewing satisfaction
Purvey the ultra-harmonica, could Bakula up your mediocre faction
Sonic boom head soup, contact off an attachable Miele vacuum
Kill deaf MC's with closed caption
Wind up in the willows, cast the whirling dervish
Or the dead and dumb millennium is at your service
Solar packets brigade pivot then back fell another MC who thought
'Cause he was dipped in powder blue that he could rock past-El
Got your Hip-Hop essence out of the Cross Colours catalog
While I lorde technology
Ask L. Ron Hubbard to break down my Scientology
Fucking up through the chest, I bust insidious, bad touching
Boogie, to break, to bumrushing
Fresh duck – tainted, vile fiend
This track achieves pain penicillin, crack, and AZT couldn't relieve
Being Sizzlean – I'll trim the fat like Susan Powter's
Disrespectin' burners like CAP, licking off shots from clock towers
Play 'Ring Around A Dead Nation'
The Deadhead situation, situated to cease all humilation
MC's are helpless like Godzuki
Faggot like RuPaul, true to the new sensation
Fuck that whole wannabe gangster fascination
The illusion is broke, all cock-gobblers misspoke
And got the El-P rookie card stuck in their bicycle spoke
For those VH1 crystallized, pseudo-ripped blokes
Let the liquid tanner soak into the seam of your coat
Meet the professional dead-or-live politic technician
Straight-neck capital P, for the deep throat dickin'
I was that first monkey to touch the Monolith, delinquent
Up in that crack like White Squall for the week and I sunk your Battleship
Parked in a hot zone, bow to the Ebola
Manifest brain tumors through the phone as you roamin' your Motorola
[Verse 2: J-Treds]
All hail J and El, the fans rise
We got the grand prize, foes fantasize runner-up
The closest they can see it
Because – skills so lenient, I've been boastin' with half a flow
They can't handle the whole weight, son
Diagnosis: bulimic, believe it
My best line, too advanced for Pop Warner – you got cornered
Scouting report: can't scramble in the clutch
But when I get down, it's third and inches, threatening to score
How you gonna tackle the topic when you suck at two-hand touch?
We're too damn much for your defense
Break you down, zone weakens
Words bring embarrassment, captains look like third string in comparison
To this duo known to kick fat flows
And beat suckers straight up and down, Tic-Tac-Toe
Game over when I blow your mind, but then I aim lower, explosive cuts
Verbal flamethrower, serving roasted nuts
As after-battle snacks; you'll wish you wore a cup in your panties
All you pussies in this rap game – time to up the ante
What's your fancy? Big time skills or small penny?
Dead the latter, my varsity letter fatter than your JV
Only play with the big boys, toys bringing that weak shit
Before the battle, I hit em 'off with the fat lady's latest release on cassette
They were done from the start
Ran for the finish, got detoured from the fast route by the #1 spot holder
Holdin' ground for our town – N.Y.
For those who don't acknowledge, they get left ass out like plumbers
[Interlude: El-P as robotic commander]
Congratulations, men. You have made it halfway.
They are fallen. Their armies are retreating.
The job is not over. You must continue.
Please move forward.
El-P – bring out tactic invasion.
Start. Summation equals now.
Do not fail us. We're counting on you.
[Verse 3: El-P]
Fix your thoughts, icy hot, like three meals with a cot included
Where The Sidewalk Ends and all your linear math get diluted
If and when he saw a spangle
Pack the brim, circular meta-scented deject wreck-the-tangle
Fuck Time-Warner and it's affiliates – promotin' that wannabe Big Willie shit
Leave those fancy clothes up to the Pope
List all personal possessions in your liner notes
But I connect wreck, genuinely cuttin' through these red ropes
Son, grip the love spigot
Yeah, that's the ticket
This platoon pop 99 Luftballons
While the one-hit blunderbusses exhaust like city buses
I bomb, like rats accost, for the sake of skill, lost and found
Bound by DNA patterns you wish you could climb
Just a little girl around the way of my set – that's profound
Enter the evil opus, focus on rats scrambling
Record labels to expect non-reaction is bad gambling
I know a few true, that'd make we – collusion
El-P and J-Treds penetrate cranial intrusion
[Verse 4: J-Treds]
Enter this one time to catch it
Two of the illest and unsigned
Lethal separate, but combined
Friction creates a frontline environment
Got you stepping
Trying to evade us busting caps in your thoughts
But now crossfire-catching's added to your job skills
Top of your resumé
Submitted, applying for lyric positions that we occupied yesterday
But got the pink slip, labels on some not-think shit
Requiring brain absence lobotomy reigns rapids
That trap gets full, by J and El evasion tactics
Our equations infinite, punks are scored in random access
Having half-words, recycling tracks like plastic – please forfeit
Flipping the same script, I hope it has reinforcements
Or else, it's torn to pieces while our thesis is untouched
Saved on my PC under the filename of "Funcrush"
Megabytes bumrush, by one punch, upon my keyboard
Our data's the top secret that mad suckers will fiend for
Comin' from the last two to be cut from Dream Team 3
We be the ones who shine, prepare for butt-kicking
Rarely benchwarming, throwing down all too often
While others barely touch rim, and that's when they're butt-licking
[Outro: El-P as robotic commander]
Done.
Job well done.
They know who we are.
They know we know who they are.
They will fall.
They are going to have to compete.
Understand. They will no longer monopolize.
Time-Warner will fall.
I'm proud of you.
Come home.
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