Choclair, Kardinal Offishall, and Y-Look Freestyle (The Time Has Come!)

[Intro: Kardinal Offishall and (Y-Look)]
Haha. Yeah, you know this already (Sup?). The year was 1999 (Fucking 9). Eddie Ill (Eddie Ill) and DL (Uh). The illest (Yeah) with The Circle (Circle!). Kardinal Offishall (Yeah), Y-Look, and Choclair (Y-Look, Choclair). Illest verses ever recorded (Uh)! Trust me on that. This is going out to any nigga trying to diss, trust (Trust me, yo). Ayyo

[Verse 1: Kardinal Offishall]
A diss ain't a diss if a diss has discrepancies
I dismiss your dissidence and doubt your intelligence
In disgust, I disjoint your disc from the dispatch
And disenthrall all of y'all from shit that's wack
Steady disguising your disfavor. Disliking my steelo?
This ain't kindergarten—you don't have to go where we go
Discipline yourself before your ego disappears
When I discreetly disassemble you from your career
Stupid, this is not your ordinary rapper diss
This is so all y'all niggas discover just who the dapper is
Causing discomfort, just allowing your disc jock to rock
Any record ‘cause your whole sound's flop, yo
This is going out to niggas who diss without
Thinking about what the hell they’re doing. Yo, your shit we're booing
Boo (Boooo)! And while I discombobulate you
This is going out to any nigga opposing my crew

[Verse 2: Choclair]
Ayyo, I'm know to hit you with the flavor like I'm Cola, hitting skins
It's the Choclair, brother, better known as Dark Skin
Pulling skins with my finger, ladies who be licking
Girls jerking on my roller like Jamaican fucking chicken
I stand up on the stage and then I rock hard
Pasty girls come with attitudes but got their puss scarred
‘Cause I'm that ill flower. Yes, that raw dog bastard
Sealing girls’ cracks like my name was fucking plaster
Grab the microphone and you know I never fall
Your girl's got a sore throat, use my balls as a Bradosol
What? So, motherfucker, go for yours
‘Cause I’ll be dropping rhymes like your girls drop her drawers
So don't test me ‘cause you'll get your head wrecked, you'll go home
And your girl’s legs are split and the mailman's having breakfast
Shit. Yo, I get ill, no doubt
I’ll tit-fuck your girl and leave stains on the blouse
Nigga, what?

[Verse 3: Y-Look]
Yeah, what's your case? Ain't no need to contemplate or debate
I smack the taste out your mouth and make your nose menstruate
Period. Your period has come to an end
That track was booty wack—can't believe that they put you up in the blend
I scream, "Revolution," while Shayṭān screams, "Cream"
I'm trying to show these young cats that there's more to this rap than green
Circle clique ain't a team—we a regime
Storming the process, stoning lands like Afghan with [?]
In this rap drought, ritualistic rap brings the rain
Burns with flame or butane for that shit you claimed
Disintegrate your clique, looking like powdered cocaine
Put a virus in your mainframe and rock spots like Sting

[Outro: Y-Look]
Yeah, Y-Look, Kardinal, and Choclair for our man Eddie Ill and DL. Via the mixtape, T-Dot's brought to the world. Suck it! Fuck it