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)