Eastern Conference Freestyle (A Long Rhyme Coming: The 1999 to 2002 Sessions Pt. 1) Eddie Ill & D.L. (Ft. Cage, Copywrite & Mr. Eon)

[Intro: Mr. Eon]
Ah. Ah. Eastern Conference. This is how it goes down. Uh, Copywrite, Cage, Mr. E, yo

[Verse 1: Mr. Eon]
Yo, I’ll roam the blocks in the low post. And with the slow
Roast, outgrow most and grow in soul, toast
AND1 and dumb slum lord of tennis
It’s the phantom menace who leads the anthem wettest
I got no morals like your wormy attorney
So hungover, histories, they couldn’t overturn me
Ten new addictions the additions added
To the twenty I already got—I’m still twisted
As something’s missing in my life, I can’t fix
My déjà vu is just a glitch in The Matrix
Fashion yourself in the latest adornment
I’ll lay dormant—more than your Christmas ornaments
Stadium organist, pro-porn activist
I hate these girls who claiming they be abstinent
We feed ‘em absinthe and an Afghan spliff
They’re looking angelic when I crack them lips

[Verse 2: Copywrite]
I’ll take your mic, spit, then unplug it, coward
If it ain’t about rap or pussy, I don’t give a fuck about it
Written for written, you can’t front. Your clan sucks
Fuck it. You could spit my written. I’ll come off the head like dandruff
Search in the trunk of your Benz for money to spend
I’ll steal from anybody, especially one of my friends
That goes double for the bitch you share your microphone with
And those dumb enough to believe she writes her own shit
You ain’t no enemy—my friends are worse
Got a memory with an endless burst to serve any emcee
Within this Earth, whether kin of me or friends since birth
I’ll kill you, hop in a rented Jeep, rear-end
Your hearse. Ate your wife and a forensic nurse
During your wake, cum in the john, getting head in church
Fuck you, your mom, and your team of pawns, and if
You don’t believe in God, then you’re calling me a fraud