1, 2 Pass It

[Verse 1: Mad Lion]
Oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why
Why does a DJ test and he end up die
I know, I know, I know, I can't explain
My copper shot just blow their brain
Who are the man with the gun inna his hand
Step up on the scene like Captain Caveman
You want the music everybody scream louder
Lick pure shot and smell the gun powder

[Verse 2: Doug E. Fresh]
On and on and on and on...
Yo, freestyle flow to make the crowd just go
The old to the new, the new to the old
{Beatbox} The rhythm be workin' up on me
The crowd be jumpin' up for me, the people are waitin' up on me
To enter the stage in a rage, Mad Lion's out the cage
Now it's time for me to engage, uhh
And bear witness, the lyrical fitness
The jumps, the dives, the leaps, are you gettin' this?
Next to step up, microphone check up
KRS-ONE, so come and get your wreck up

[Verse 3: KRS-ONE]
Our mother who art in Heaven
Number seven is the weapon
With the God, yes, I'm steppin'
Lyrically I'm never beggin', you know
I'm the difference between indo and oregano
Imagine how fresh I am now, I made these lyrics up a year ago
So, report back it was fat, fit, all that, quick
Pump that, drop the S-hit, I'm lyrically physically fit
Catch me buggin' on the mic, every day and every night
Every hour, every second, man, it don't stop, get it, get it
Yes, admit it when I'm way up in it
You can't hide 'cause my radar's goin' bibip bibip bibip
I reside in the watchtower, watchin' MCs land
Your career will be as short as my part in "Who's The Man"
Goddamn, I'm the pinnacle, yes, the metaphysical
Come to you as the rap god of lyrical syllable
Fall to your knees, bring fruit, ask advice
Put your rhymes on the altar, burn 'em as a sacrifice
The aroma reaches up to my nostril, I get hostile
Your lyrics are stiff like David Koppel
Yes, Premier rocks the track on time
KRS-ONE with off of the top of the head rhyme
Yeah, Fat Joe, you know you gotta flow
My man Doug E Fresh down with the one called KRS
We got the mad MCs up in the D&D
I'm out, G

[Verse 4: Fat Joe]
Yeah!
Motherfuckers know who's the best
If it ain't Fat Joe, then it must be Lord Finesse
Think not? Then show what you got
But don't grab this mic, the shit's too hot
I'm the born killer, nigga from the Bronx
Rappers talk shit but there's really no comp
Bring it on if you think you can hang
And if not, then let me do my thing
Yeah, so Smif-n-Wessun if you're down with me
Represent one time on the M-I-C

[Verse 5: Smif-n-Wessun]
Mr. Ripper, get your gear and prepare for war
Mr. Vickster, you ain't gotta tell me no more
'Cause what I see on the daily deals with reality
So, come follow we on this journey
Through Brooklyn
Where the crooks dwell in the projects overlookin'
In the form of the streets, you know them well
Bet your ass this grass is greener
Than a 20 sack of sensimila bought straight from Medina
You know the vibe when Smif-n-Wessun twist up the Thai
Peace to my people in the Ville, peace to my heads in the Stuy
We do or die, we test your stamina
So, any challenger, we pass the motherfucker off to the Damaja

[Verse 6: Jeru the Damaja]
Super scientifical madness
My status is the baddest every time I bless the apparatus
You wish to take me out, so you study
Meanwhile my clothes, mics and foes are left bloody
Cruddy, filthy from the ground on up
When I plan my attack, I doubt that you're ready
Rain on competition like razor sharp confetti
Kung Fu techniques from the perverted monastery
Sifu Ru manipulates the microphone
And rhymes like bullets penetrate your zone
See, we bring more drama than Kevin Costner
No, I'm not Jamaican, but, yes, I'm a Rasta