[Intro]
Yeah, you know them
They accuse the righteous people of crimes and claim that we're wicked
Stirring up controversy, making us fight each other
All the fake rappers make it worse, they gotta pay

[Verse 1: Guru]
First and foremost, some rappers are sweet like fructose
When I cock back these lyrics, y'all punks best be ghost
I be the seven twenty-one, eighteen twenty-one
The illest one, I'm almost doper than anyone
Straight out the late nights of Bed-Stuy
Stepping up, y'all put your weapons up, I make heads fly
You're artificial like saccharin
You're crazy fake, it's more than skills you be lacking in
Concepts you bite, cause your identity ain't tight
Trying to be something you're not, like pulling a knife at a gunfight
I'm trooping on night air like flight number 106
And getting all up in your fucking mix
You get me upset, and I got you uptight
Cause my committee's in your city tonight, aight?
We got seventeen million of us plus, two million Indians
That makes 19 mil, lighting shit up like Wild Bill
I be the, supreme father plus the ill kid, with drama
My karma, creates the Teflon to pierce your body armor
And make sure you check the shit before you walk to me, or talk to me
Stepping to me improperly, you just may catch the weaponry
My specialty is tearing tracks out the frame
You know my fucking name, I rule all game
I'm universal on all planes, what's your claim?
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