C What I C

[Intro: Pharoahe Monch]
Ah, Pharoahe Monch, yeah

[Verse 1: Pharoahe Monch]
I said "Yes, yes, y'all, to the beat, y'all"
We tryin' to teach the young and get the loot
And still be like havin' a ball
Hey hey hey
We try to walk a little bit like this I say
I hate rap promoters, I start to motor
Talk from Southside to North Minnesota
Dre gramm of yey with a small cup of soda
Never get the women with the underarm odor
Sky town Motorola holder who rocks golder than
Those who fold when they try to throw me the cold shoulder
Try to tell these younger kids cause I'm a little older
The war's about to happen and we need our little soldiers

[Verse 2: Ras Kass]
I riggity-rock, I wriggity-wreck shop
(Nah, I'm fuckin' with y'all)
I fall through parallel universes with a gun
And murder myself to gain strength like Jet Li in "The One"
Catch me in ya slum, slumming
Sippin' a little some-something
Bumping Big Pun it's nothing to front and get to dumpin'
Something up in here y'all gon' make me lose my mind
Use my nine, and do my time
I do my grime, and spit rhymes freaky, air it out
Put new holes in conscious rappers' dishikis
Be beneath me, no rapper could defeat me
Like puttin' your face in feces (I talk shit)
Who I be? Real nigga with a fake I.D
O.G., B.G., L.A., N.Y.C
The matrix is radio and T.V

[Chorus: Pharoahe Monch (& Ras Kass)]
I see designer glasses, titties and asses
Voluptuous beats, that bumps, that move the masses
Disastrous beats that strike; V.I.P. passes
It's on (It's on?) It's on
(I see sex, money and rhyme, murder and crime
Good time, soldiers that grind, for lust for the shine
Bentley's, bitches that break ballers
All us, wanna be shot-callers, call the coroners)

[Verse 3: Pharoahe Monch]
They say I was too advanced to advance
Now who's the chancellor?
You couldn't scrap if you was one of Big Daddy Kane's dancers
The answer but not for the '76's
I pull your lips off, stick ya dick in your mouth
And put your lips where your dick was, sideways pussy
Punks try to prevoke, chastise and push me
Queens shit (Come on!) Queens shit (Come on!)
Fuck around and get your motherfucking spleen split (Come on!)

[Verse 4: Ras Kass (& Pharoahe Monch)]
Thorough on turntables for technicians to play it
Hi-Tek laid for Pharoahe Monch to slay it
I'm triple R-rated: Ras Rip Raps
Ride Rolls-Royces; Ravenous raps with big racks, really
Really, hah, I refuse to rot consumers
Cause scorn groupies get mad and spread rumors like
"Do you hear what I hear"
(I heard gay rapper's a thug, and not a nerd)
Can you believe that shit, Monch?
(Word, Ras) Word
(I heard a lot of murderers ain't really murderers
And it's absurd cause they frontin' like they never heard of us)
Niggas playin' king-pin but only curb servers or
Claim they want beef but really only herbivores
If you want to party trunk and wanna get crunked
Throw ya hands up! Bitches, throw ya hands up!

[Chorus x2: Pharoahe Monch (& Ras Kass)]
I see designer glasses, titties and asses
Voluptuous beats, that bumps, that move the masses
Disastrous beats that strike; V.I.P. passes
It's on (It's on?) It's on
(I see sex, money and rhyme, murder and crime
Good time, soldiers that grind, for lust for the shine
Bentley's, bitches that break ballers
All us, wanna be shot-callers, call the coroners)