[Intro: DJ Kay Slay]
It's a time for martyrs now, as the rap game that's in a crisis
Record sales continue to decline, record labels are mergin
And cats got confused on what's real hip hop
[Chorus: Busta Rhymes]
We got the real live spitters in the game of rap!!!
All you dudes say you nice, but you niggas is wack!!!
Where my lyricists at?!! Where my lyricists at?!!!
Where the fuck you niggas at?! Where the lyricists at?!
[Verse 1: Big Lou]
I could carry the weight of Pun, ressurect Big L's lungs
And jack every single beat that Jam-Master Jay spun
I'm the lyrical son of Rakim, the jab of Bernard Hopkins
The voice of B.I.G. and Pac overlooked by Johnnie Coch-aran
The KRS-One doctrine, the monster in these niggas
That be posterin I'm robbin 'em in a whip they girlfriend drivin 'em
I'm butter without the margarine, the crack without the sizzle
The rain without the drizzle, the hammer without the chizle
The baller without the dribble, the scribble Scrabble, the Writer's Block
I bibble babble have the spit and flip the rip the chain that shackles
Had to fight and grapple and tackle the Rotten Apple
I traveled from Camden and met the Drama King at the tabernacle
Gave me the juice like a Snapple, ran with it like the Olympics
Encrypted my signature on templets for the cake like Krimpets
Move Atlantis, I Am Legend, knock a Troy to Armageddon
Lyrical prophet the hip hop heavens, raised by Latin Florida Evans
It's a time for martyrs now, as the rap game that's in a crisis
Record sales continue to decline, record labels are mergin
And cats got confused on what's real hip hop
[Chorus: Busta Rhymes]
We got the real live spitters in the game of rap!!!
All you dudes say you nice, but you niggas is wack!!!
Where my lyricists at?!! Where my lyricists at?!!!
Where the fuck you niggas at?! Where the lyricists at?!
[Verse 1: Big Lou]
I could carry the weight of Pun, ressurect Big L's lungs
And jack every single beat that Jam-Master Jay spun
I'm the lyrical son of Rakim, the jab of Bernard Hopkins
The voice of B.I.G. and Pac overlooked by Johnnie Coch-aran
The KRS-One doctrine, the monster in these niggas
That be posterin I'm robbin 'em in a whip they girlfriend drivin 'em
I'm butter without the margarine, the crack without the sizzle
The rain without the drizzle, the hammer without the chizle
The baller without the dribble, the scribble Scrabble, the Writer's Block
I bibble babble have the spit and flip the rip the chain that shackles
Had to fight and grapple and tackle the Rotten Apple
I traveled from Camden and met the Drama King at the tabernacle
Gave me the juice like a Snapple, ran with it like the Olympics
Encrypted my signature on templets for the cake like Krimpets
Move Atlantis, I Am Legend, knock a Troy to Armageddon
Lyrical prophet the hip hop heavens, raised by Latin Florida Evans
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