1,2... 1,2

Monsta Island Czars (ft. Kong, Megalon, and Rodan) - “1,2...1,2”
[Emcee(s): Kong, Megalon, and Rodan]
[Producer(s): King Geedorah (Original Instrumental from Metal Fingers - “Fenugreek”)]
[Sample (Melody): The Mystic Moods Orchestra - “Something”]

[Intro: Kong]
One, two, one, two. Kongcrete, the most hideous. Check it, check it, check it

[Verse 1: Kong]
Smoking
Hash, leave an open ass broken, stash floating fast
Lifted. Kong with the broken glass
Slurper, a nasty nigga fuck Bertha
Insert it further than murder, pulled out then squirt her
Alpha murder, alpha murder, murder
Alpha murder, pull the squeeze then hurt her
Out for cheddar, piece of cheese. When in doubt, love
Took Alicia’s Keys in and out love, ate nine
Hate all, hate on fakes, cornballs is fake
Find your body at your dawg’s wake, barking
Create comment when I start to spit, y’all
Niggas spit conformant. Kong bombing

[Verse 2: Megalon]
Study every
Religion there is. Rhythm for kids deadly as venom is
This hemorrhage friends of his. I’m like a guinea
Pig with a skinny snitch, and me big like a penny
Rich—hear me, bitch—ready to let the semi spit
Here he is. Is he really sick or is he really picked to see
The vict’ or is he really dead for what he did? Let the machete
Rip, spaghetti drip. Ready, get set, ready
Go, ready to rock machete flow to let you know we’re ready
To go. Is he heavy? Is he petty? I was
Hungry, so they fed me, yo. For heavy dough, I need
Some heavy dro. Megalon in your stereo
Ready to shoot the heady, yo. Yo!

[Verse 3: Rodan]
Lyrics of death wrap—this how the letter bond. Yo, Megalon
Pass that Megatron. Gods on a hunt like a Predacon
Smoking cedar wood trees from Lebanon. Fascist sprites
On MTV, terrorist threats looped on my MP-
-C travel at a hundred eighty-six thousand kilobytes
Per second, downloaded on the MP3. Ninety-Ninety-
-Five, Long Island, iced-out in an MVB. Monsta
Island escaped from MCC

[Verse 4: Kong]
By any
Means, many fiends akin to toast teens
Toast the scenes for the hoes to scream, mostly
Seen by the avoiding. Get down here when Luciani ‘hind me
Behind Pataki, busting shots with Giuliani. Bust back
I’ll squeeze rapping niggas—y’all, quit acting like it could happen
My MAC-10 made big niggas backspin—what happened?

[Verse 5: Megalon]
Is that so?
Tommy Brasco stack dough. You lack flow, my ab-
-stract flow for cashflow turn cocaine to crack and turn
Crack to blow—now how the fuck that go? I wanna
Fuck that ho, the white ho and the black ho
Lay on your back, ho. They made the track slow so I could rap
Slow. Tommy mack hoes. Yo, yo
My gun is like my girl ‘cause I don’t wanna let my gat go
I sold crack fast, now I sell crack slow
In the back, on the low. If you ain’t got no dough, come to
The back door. I’ll give you a full pack at four
Rock rap shows, L be on the map when I blow
R&B rap takes it in the ass-crack slow
At my last show, I snatched gold. Black Jesus
It’s a Black Christmas—now picture black snow

[Verse 6: Rodan]
Ayyo
We calculate the sands of time in slow-mo, manipulating
Every moment through space, metabolize the seeds of wealth to let the
Dough flow, committing acts of violence and hate crimes against the po-po
Double-barreled, handheld bazooka for Sergeant Shitface if you want to start
Fronting like you row boat. Blaze that bush, whether your Mary
Jane is def or even if it’s so-so. Teasing bitches
With ice cubes on their nipple, keep ‘em playing with their yo-yo
Athletic pussy like Lisa Leslie and Rebecca Lobo
Rock the show from uptown, downtown to Tribeca, Soho
Most of these rappers R&B singers like K-
-Ci & JoJo, better off harmonizing with Taj
Leigh Leigh, and Coco. Thespian thugs, niggas is all
Mouth like the Rolling Stones logo, Bianca Jagger
Free-jacker, jacking me off in a go-go. Stuff down
Their throats, spitting completely bobo, keeping it groovy without
The synthetic fucking mojo, got the spot kicking
Like a donkey locked up inside a dojo, smack
Ralph Lauren, got Tommy Hilfiger picking cotton, rocking Polo

[Bridge: Megalon]
Is that so?

[Verse 7: Kong]
Niggas stay lifted
Bring the biscuit, bring the bitches, bring the mother-
-fucking statistics, bring the death certificates
Um, don’t forget the four blocks—peace to Fort
Knox, where the four stops