Ken Boogaloo, Sub-Conscious, Karim, Yeshua DapoED, L.I.F.E. Long, and Many Styles Freestyle (A Long Rhyme Coming: The 1999 to 2002 Sessions Pt. 1)

[Intro: Ken Boogaloo]
Check it out, one time. Yo, Big Boogaloo, the Wee Bee Foolish crew. One time, check it out, uh, uh, uh

[Verse 1: Ken Boogaloo]
Consider me the epitome of what New York City be
Look in my eyes and you see Brooklyn vividly
You want to compete with my fleet? You must be kidding me
I’ll fly your dome from BK to fucking Italy
Ken Boogaloo pull strings like Bo Diddley
My flavor’s Major. Y’all niggas is Little League
So I suggest you just slide to the side
Take heed, take notes as I provide
Them vibes that you need to get you open wide
Over track I glide. You know my flow is live
You need to go and buy my joint and ride
Around town, knocking the sound, bobbing your crown
My crew’s locking it down. Ain’t no stopping it now
A bunch of emcees up in here, rocking the house

[Interlude 1: Sub-Conscious]
Uh. Wha-what, wha-what? A-wha-what, wha-what? Check it. Yo

[Verse 2: Sub-Conscious]
Yo, Eddie Ill, I’m ready, spill
I’m on the D.L. Fuck sea shells
Ayyo, my oral spit coral up in pieces
This be the deep-dish thesis. Sub-Con
Get scripted. What? I’ve developed
And framed the mindstates before my mood gets shifted
I’ll sift my thoughts ‘til they’re liquid, extract
The citrus for sippage and ship it upstream
To flush through the aqueducts the fiends lust for
Pillage hillsides with an image like Mount Rushmore
I got a face for my oasis. I’ll spill
Something distilled and distinguished. The ill linguist
Serve contenders like Martina Hingis
The wordsmith emerge script up through your visions
Abruptly with volcanic rhythms. I’ll laminate
Your minds with the magma, smother contaminated
Surfaces with new crust and bust merciless like
Ed McMellon and his peoples did Diallo with
Hollow-tipped descriptions worth full scholarships
To all them Ivy League colleges. Polish my thoughts like
A thirty-page thesis, put footnotes and acknowledgements
Never bite no one. That’s word to Conan
O’Brien—be up Late Night, frying my brain cells
Modern like Tame and El, digging through my wick
For artifacts to yoke cluttered thoughts into cardiac
Speed shutter scenery, quick flicks. Sharpen up
To spit the hardest, niggas, like diamond-studded drill bits
I’m flooded with hybrid styles that’s undiscovered
We way beneath the oceans and promotion budgets
It’s Sub-Conscious, I’m unsurfaced, unseen
Like true freedom for blacks and AIDS vaccines
What?

[Verse 3: Karim]
Mmm. It’s like that
Tight, fat with the raps. If you watched
Star Wars and Rambo, I’ll diss you—you wouldn’t Strike Back
Tight, fat coming off the handle
Cats panhandle lyrics underground, in the station
Waiting, cats lose patience, inculpating
Syncopation. Thinking how I’m sinking
Coming through, cats be fakes this industry. Fuck it
My ministry come through—not for ducking
Corrupt cops get bucked quicks, uncovers
Keep it on the D.L Off the head, E
For Eddie. Cats ain’t ready with this lyrical
Machete. Cut cats in half. The nicest
With the devices off the head like blind mices
From the butcher’s wife, y’all couldn’t produce the cuts as
Nice as this. Descended from Isis. Just bless
The mic devices off the top of the skyscraper
I hate y’all wack cats, exterminate ya
Pack jacks—fuck it. It’s in your nature. You never
Pull it. You never do shit, the smooth shit
Coming through with a crew that’s loose with the lips

[Interlude 2: Yeshua DapoED]
Uh. Yeah. Uh. Uh. Check it out, one time. Yeshua Dapo on the mic, one time. Yo

[Verse 4: Yeshua DapoED]
Brothers need
To mention me for the start of the century
Tracks telling me when to react. Eventually raps
Are formed. Tentatively, that’s the norm
But, sometimes, I’ll bring it back like that. I’m
Rocking mics aggressively ‘cause that’s my specialty
Formulate the recipe to let you see what fresher be
I emcee impressively, especially when
It’s me or Bless pressing buttons on the MP
The energy tempts me to bring it back to the
Days when raps were designed to say how wack you were
If you’re spectacular in a soundboard
Perhaps it’s the assortment of raps you’re down for
After ya. Caught up in the downpour
You’re asking yourself what you’re hanging around for
Imagine if I hadn’t been holding it down for
The crew—with a little energies, we kick down doors
Like that. Uh

[Verse 5: L.I.F.E. Long]
Yo, yo, yo, yo, it’s like
Still rhyming over black, tinted-out sets while
Shadowboxing with the silhouette of death gasping for breath
Trying to find my light throughout a tripled stage of darkness
My main object is to wipe cats off sets, leave ‘em
Flying over minefields and aircrafts programmed
To make their seat eject. Understand the skills
When I connect like dots, my Stronghold flock
Be terrorizing your block
With all type of ill skills, got the red dot on your dome
Meaning: to mark spots to kill emcees
With lyrical murder poems when I’m chilling first
Leaving emcees stunned and in the back of the hearse. I
Delete my own curse in studios on the fast-forward
For Eddie Ill & D.L., yo, on the D.L
When I throw missile-like lyrics to my left, yo
Many Styles. Now let me take my breath

[Interlude 3: Many Styles]
Yo, yo. Many Styles. Level X. Off the top like this. Like this

[Verse 6: Many Styles]
Y-y-y-y-y-y-yo, b-b-b-b-butter flow
You are now being introduced to stutter mode
I flip scripts, rip primitive liquids, hit with legitimate spit that
I kick, baffle therapists, dumb psychiatrists
Why would you want to try to diss the rhyme that I inflict?
Iron fist break your chest
You take in cess and flexing like you wrecking tape decks?
I don’t think so. Flow will make
Your ship sink. I can
Think black holes and then enter thoughts
Injure competitors of all sorts
You could never enter the presenter. You’ll get broken
Approaching golden microphones that I’m holding. Your style
Is stolen, bitten. Ripping, dissing, dismissing
Competition, stomp with precision backwards
With precision, I stomp, dissing competition
The rhythm gets sliced and diced. I rip mics
With a thin slice of insight
How bubonous, pitiful, ludicrous imbecile
New to this ritual influenced the lyrical, mutinous spiritual
Unions with ridicule? You and your typical boobing
Of difficult doing human. I orbit
Space not yet seen by men
And uncover uncharted lands
Walk on waters for the out-of-order
Rhyme. Take my aura
Combined with soul, rip flows in half and land