Bring It On (The Lost Remix)

[Hook: Prince Poetry, The Ill Rahlos, and All] x3
Bring it on!
You could set my mode to whatever!
Or simply pay the penalties for walking this endeavor
My observations on your alter egos that left you penetrated
We’ll devastate! How you fucking poor when you fake?!?

[Verse 1: Pharoahe Monch, The Ill Rahlos, and All]
Bring it on!
Even be getting more graphic, Neo-Geo, thirty-two-bit
Computer chip be slipped between my lips, and then I’ll spit!
Spit it out Out!, spit it out Out!, go ahead, spit it out Out!, that itty-bitty style you upchuck
Better believe I butt-fuck emcees from the rear, it appears you’re stuck-up!
It’s my terminology that strikes the mind and rips this beat apart
You know the many styles I choose will bruise crews from the start. I flow
Awkwardly—that’s awkwardly I flow that’s to the rhythm
Incisions are made into the brain, and then I begin to give ‘em
A lobotomy. Follow me! I’m shaping
Your br-ayi-yi-ya-in… li-li-li-li-like…
Pot-der-der-der-ery... (all over the track!)
Gimme the P-H, gimme the A-R, gimme the O-A, gimme the H-E, Pharoahe!
Crazy poison-tip arrows are hitting you from all directions
You cannot dodge or manage to dislodge them from the point at which they are connecting
I am se-se-selecting a ne-ne-ne-ne-new style-style fo-fo-for
Pile-piles of emcees who try to get buck-buckwild
F-F-F-FUCK THAT!!! When I’m in a renovative state of mind
I’m innovative, never been afraid of rocking a microphone, I’m prone
To be eliminating. Cling when I sing a song of sixpence
If it makes sense/cents, then sing along, cling along to my nuts
If you got guts, then bring it on Bring it on!!

[Hook: Prince Poetry, The Ill Rahlos, and All] x3
Bring it on!
You could set my mode to whatever!
Or simply pay the penalties for walking this endeavor
My observations on your alter egos that left you penetrated
We’ll devastate! How you fucking poor when you fake?!?

[Verse 2: Prince Poetry, The Ill Rahlos, and All]
Bring it on!
There’s no equivalent one. Consider me the epitome of rhymes, rhythm of TECs
Execution is parallel to them with an exception of the Organismz
My telepathy can’t be dismantled, so
Stop sweating me, getting me vexed while outdated raps get trampled
FEE-FI-FOE steps of elevation show that I’m
Ahead of your time behind a dope rhyme
Ripping shit up at primetime, I’m Optimus Primetime material
Imperial wizard of vocabularic havoc, I eat emcees like cereal
That’s soggy, milky skills like Mister Miyagi. When it’s foggy
I release globby spits of remains of rappers in a lobby as a hobby
I’ll rip your knit, shit gets thick quick, get your crew
Before I do something gory to your quite futile styles
Miniature raps get waxed, simonized into the fifth
Dimension of your centrifugal, never typical—stand attention. I’m
Mystical, rip shit ‘til the power blows. Those chose
To compete? We delete ‘em—observe defeat! Descending
Down from above to get cha, hit cha, split cha, ditch cha
Picture you victorious? The story is you’re boring
Bring it on!

[Hook: Prince Poetry, The Ill Rahlos, and All] x2
Bring it on!
You could set my mode to whatever!
Or simply pay the penalties for walking this endeavor
My observations on your alter egos that left you penetrated
We’ll devastate! How you fucking poor when you fake?!?

[Outro: The Ill Rahlos]
Bring it on! Whatever!
We’ll devastate! How you fucking poor when you fake?!?
Bring it on!