Prince Po, Mr. Complex, and Percee P Freestyle (The Time Has Come!)

[Intro: Prince Po]
Uh, yes. Another mission, another quest. Prince Po. Now you know. Uh, uh, uh. What? Yes. No doubt, represent the South. This is how we do, yo. Off the top like this, yo. Yo

[Verse 1: Prince Po]
I’ll represent my man Eddie Ill and D.L
Let’s excel, jet propel
Hover over New York City, keep you shitty
This is how I keep it running with the grimy and gritty
Uh, that’s how I was grew up, brought up
This is how I get you niggas caught up
In a situation like this. Watch me thrust
Bust. Only in God I trust. Us
Niggas ain’t taking no shorts, catch you niggas
On court ‘cause there’s a battle that’s fought
And won. Just begun, shit’s done
J’s straight from the basement—son of a gun
The shogun coming off the top of the melon
Busting down your cerebellum—you better tell him
Prince Po representer of forty projects
Uh, kick it specific and visualize the objects
That’s coming out of my mouth from the South
Uh, peace to my nigga [?], no doubt
Rest in peace. That was my dog from uptown
Uptown set. Uh, we get down
Uh, how that sound off my melon?
Off my top, never storytelling
I keep it simple when I kick the instrumental
Keep it ripping as I do it for your mentals
Off the top, uh, Queens never will stop
Hip hop forever until the next drop
It’s all good and gravy, no “if” ands/or “maybes”
Catch me in a hooptie, catch me in a Mercedes
It don’t matter—I got G’s in my pockets
Nigga, how you feeling, nigga? How you rock it?
Why you clocking? You on my dick for something?
As I do it like this, we keep it Pumping like soles
Coast to coast, don’t brag or boast
Known as the underrated—America’s most
From here to Japan, I can’t stand
When niggas won’t see me come through and stand
On my own ‘cause I’m bad to the bone
To the bone gristle until they blow the whistle
The game’s over. Your shit should have been tight
Nigga, come and see me next year, aight?
Motherfucker

[Verse 2: Mr. Complex]
Yo, I be up in places, be up in faces
Running these mics like razors. Well, let me jog
Your mind with this fat style that you sweat unless you a reptile
Then I disregard your rap and have new linoleum
You face Napoleon complex from the lyrical Complex
Take you out of the content ‘cause I ain’t want to battle
I just want to bat a little with a baseball. You know? Like a friendly game
Like the Dodgers and keep a friendly name like Mr. Rogers
Spit in front of me like Chucky, you’re an Enemy like Chuck D
Chuck a little something at your ten-men crew. If someone’s still standing there
I chuck another—catch a spear. But I’m not spearchucker, motherfucker
You say, “It ain’t fair.” I say, “You know what else ain’t fair? Life”
Know what else ain’t fair? You got a gun. I got a knife
But you ain’t got no bullets. My knife is of plastic
You moths suck, but I got more skills, so to end you, get your ass kicked

[Interlude 1: Mr. Complex and Percee P]
Mr. Complex: It’s like that, it get drastic. Complex, what?
Percee P: Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s the monarch of the subterranean. Legendary, lethal lyricist, the Rhyme Inspector Percee P. That BX shit. Check it out, y’all. Uh, uh

[Verse 3: Percee P]
In the industry, some mimic me and my image, B, my chemistry
The flow infinitely with no limit, G, I’m gimmick-free
Shed the knowledge. The mental-dead’ll frolic, so as heads in college
The men are ‘bolic, researching writers, rhymes are writ with garlic
Some say, “Percer rhyming may burst ya ego
When hit, they hurt ya way worser.” The Ray Mercer
I’m dusting—niggas urgently need emergency surgery
Every word’ll leave third-degree burns from combustion
Leave eyes black, guys smacked—your size, Mac—for wisecracks
Through the lies, cats known to replies back die, Jack
I’m like a wide screen: showing drama. Word to mama
When the rhymer cause more trauma than a homicide scene
I know this nigga named Ricky. His girl Nikki want to get with me
Said, “Stick me—just a quickie. Lick me and leave a hickie”
Turf: BX. Scorn kids, leave their borns with
Birth defects. Uh, mics fell from my delivery
Of soliloquys. I’m deadly as killer bees
But more iller, G, got you feeling me like Braille
Huh. It’s like this and like that, y’all. Black
I’m back to smack these wack new jacks who rap, y’all

[Outro: Percee P]
Uh. Yeah, yeah, shouts to my crew: Hardcore’s Finest. [?] rhymer. My man Plain Pat, Dub-L. The Vinyl Dogs, y’all. Peace