Jane Doe, Shadowman, and Kriminul Freestyle (The Time Has Come!)

[Intro: Jane Doe]
Eddie Ill, D.L., Jane Doe. Uh

[Verse 1: Jane Doe]
Jane Doe street connection, hit mics without protection
Run red lights at the busy intersections
Sonic erections upon my rap completion
Bang you in the head until your ears release secretions
Present rhymes in the oral. You sing along
Now it’s plural from Queens, where it’s rural
Tap your spine like an epidural. Red eyes beaming
Got the whole crowd screaming, transforming to a demon
That appears inside your semen. No rhyme without the reason
Follow, my intuition expensive like tuition
You blind like [?] and, in addition, I move mountains
While you steady wishing in a well for heaven
While you living in H-E-double-11
I’m consecutive like seven-executive mentality
Count grams like they calories—ain’t no cap on my salary
Me and my man nicknamed Mickey and Mallory
In actuality, I put the real inside reality
Jane Doe

[Verse 2: Shadowman]
Oh, my style is
Disorderly when, actually, you wannabe reported me
I’m flexing like a Mexican, but you running for the border, B
My rhymes carry extended. Frankly, you falling short of the lines
Switch time and mind, saying that lyrics ought to be
Now thoughtfully, I’m killing the lyrics that you brought to me
Get smoked like a Newport to me—any nigga who fought with me
I’ll caution thee: I’ll dirty the clothes that you sporting, G
Hurting you’s a chore to me. Frankly, nigga, you’re boring me
Historically, Shadow be ripping this shit up metaphorically
These cats that bat, they know I’m fat, but out here, they ignoring me
Every time I get back, they gon’ be like, “Oh damn. Who the fuck is he?”
Shadowman Boogie, OWD

[Interlude 1: Kriminul]
OWD, Jigmastas. Uh. Check it out

[Verse 3: Kriminul]
Put it to paper, son. This sounds like a best-seller
Seasoned veteran spit. You spun around like a propeller
Give me a shot [?]. Account of my style is so sick
I’m better, stronger, faster. Millions of dollars around six
Surround-sound mix. None escape except for meaning
And I don’t care who see me. Old dog like [?]
Better believe me when I tell you that I got dragon’s breath
In my speech ‘cause if I spit fire, ain’t none of these faggots left
We’ve been planning our steps, executing from blueprints
Who one of the realest emcees out here? Give y’all a few hints
I use ink like an assault weapon—hit you and you sink
To the bottom of the totem pole. Then I lock and reload
Fold you up like a fetus sitting on a [?]
[?] she crossed behind—mall, white-trash trailer ho
I blaze chrome with graphic content explicit for eardrums
Foes? I fear none. Fake-ass niggas I stay clear from
Plus, I bring the best out of a snare drum. I’m sick of snacking
On just mere crumbs. Sex chicks with pierced tongues
Nipple rings. Cripple things I find threatening
Louder than Steve Rifkind. You find I’m deafening

[Outro: Kriminul]
Yo, J-I-Gs, Eddie Ill, D.L. #3. 2000