[Intro: KRS-One]
Lord Finesse and Blastmaster KRS-One
Lyrical styles weigh a ton
Lord Finesse, we know you got skills
Come into the cypher and build
Chill out, all emcee I kill
Come down
[Verse 1: Lord Finesse]
Check it out, come on, here’s your chance to swing
With some ill motherfuckers, we don’t dance and sing
In ‘95 we’re out jingling
Serving Poetic Justice without that nigga John Singleton
I do my thing while the fans be jelling
Ayo, I’m so dope, you better tap your man and tell him
I don’t fake moves, I scrape crews, I make brothers break food
Just give me a beat with a bass groove
I’m mad funky, ask the experts
‘Cause I’ll make you bob your head until your motherfucking neck hurt
So don’t ask me to max, G
‘Cause if you ain’t real, I’m bringing it to your face like acne
Now rappers run scams and flim-flam
On how they be getting loose when they’re rusty like the Tin Man
They rap fast, tryna stack cash
But on the real-to-real, yo, they’re still sounding half-assed
Yelling and screaming like they got something
When they don’t got nothing, so them niggas need to stop fronting
Talking how they be ragging shit
When I don’t know if them niggas are rapping or talking motherfucking Arabic
They act so ill, ay, no frills, they should go chill
They all mouth with no skills
When I’m around, they all feel funny
‘Cause I’m young, making funds like Shaquille O’Neal, money
You want any drama? You better wear plenty armor
I’ll cut that ass like the chef at Benihana’s
The Funky Man’s in it to win it
We gotta keep it real, yo, no motherfucking gimmicks
Lord Finesse and Blastmaster KRS-One
Lyrical styles weigh a ton
Lord Finesse, we know you got skills
Come into the cypher and build
Chill out, all emcee I kill
Come down
[Verse 1: Lord Finesse]
Check it out, come on, here’s your chance to swing
With some ill motherfuckers, we don’t dance and sing
In ‘95 we’re out jingling
Serving Poetic Justice without that nigga John Singleton
I do my thing while the fans be jelling
Ayo, I’m so dope, you better tap your man and tell him
I don’t fake moves, I scrape crews, I make brothers break food
Just give me a beat with a bass groove
I’m mad funky, ask the experts
‘Cause I’ll make you bob your head until your motherfucking neck hurt
So don’t ask me to max, G
‘Cause if you ain’t real, I’m bringing it to your face like acne
Now rappers run scams and flim-flam
On how they be getting loose when they’re rusty like the Tin Man
They rap fast, tryna stack cash
But on the real-to-real, yo, they’re still sounding half-assed
Yelling and screaming like they got something
When they don’t got nothing, so them niggas need to stop fronting
Talking how they be ragging shit
When I don’t know if them niggas are rapping or talking motherfucking Arabic
They act so ill, ay, no frills, they should go chill
They all mouth with no skills
When I’m around, they all feel funny
‘Cause I’m young, making funds like Shaquille O’Neal, money
You want any drama? You better wear plenty armor
I’ll cut that ass like the chef at Benihana’s
The Funky Man’s in it to win it
We gotta keep it real, yo, no motherfucking gimmicks
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