Oktober, Ike P, and Diabolic Freestyle (A Long Rhyme Coming: The 1999 to 2002 Sessions Pt. 1)

[Intro: Oktober]
Yes, yes, yeah, yeah. It’s gonna go down like, uh, Eddie Ill, D.L. It’s like, check it, yo

[Verse 1: Oktober]
I’ll burn bushes in the backwoods mid-summer with
Black hoods, stepping from the path of flatfoots
Illuminati got my address in their black books
Hiding out five miles north of Flatbush
Suspect: native son from The Bronx. I’ll trans-
-form like Decepticons in Brooknam
It was war ‘cause it took long. Song’s for the
Headstrong wearing crowns of thorns when I perform
I’m dead-wrong, spit speech off of the beat
Flows leak from Orchard Beach to Dawson's Creek
Burn leaves backseat, subway car northeast
Fuck police. Travel hours are off-beat
Got [?]. Express out of service
Then emerge from below on the outer surface
Verse for verse, they worthless. I’ll reverse World Order
Get blown out the water like Pearl Harbor
Hit me with the detail. Oktober
1978@aol email
If we don’t meet again, then I’ll see you in Hell
Or peep the exclusive Eddie Ill & D.L

[Verse 2: Ike P]
Yo, a lot of
My niggas is curious—they always be asking me:
Can I make Ja Rule run from a battle Fast ‘cause I’m Furious?
This style’s so mysterious, you’ll never figure it out
Rip ligaments, spit with an ignorant mouth, causing records
In terror, real to the letter when this record come out. I’ll have
Niggas switch up they gimmicks, make ‘em take different routes
Create dangerous documents, kill a columnist when I’m rhyming this
The nigga that’s so raw draw blood like phlebotomists
God damn it, I’m kind of pissed—that’s why I insist
To diss niggas thinking that they really the shit
From R&B singers and actors to these wack [rap craze?]
It’s a fact anyone could get it when you challenge my wit
Blessed with talent and a fabulous gift. Fuck that Fabolous
Kid. He sound like Mase put some dick in his jizz
A tough critic that always critique what weak niggas speak
The streets know the truth, so I speak lyric proof for the streets
The majority of you rappers should get used to defeat
I’m using this beat as an outlet, bruising egos for cheese
[?]. Hot bars char and bake
I’ll smack you so hard, make you do the Harlem Shake
Faggot

[Interlude 1: Diabolic and Ike P]
Ike P: Word up. Eddie E & D.L. will rock well. Cvees. Fuckawackrapper.com—log on, yo
Diabolic: Eddie Ill, D.L. Diabolic

[Verse 3: Diabolic]
Yo, I’ll make
Rappers that of a cadaver after the massacre, smacking the
Piss out of ya like bladders attached to catheters
Stabbing your cardiovascular. No arteries are hard to see
If I was an organ donor, you’d still want no parts of me
I’m smoking a Garcia V-E-G-A every weekday
Burning brain cells to forget the wack shit emcees say
If DJs spun the true shit, I’d have clipped you undisputed
Depriving your baby-blue skies of the Sun’s approval
We’ve begun the movement, drink kerosene, spit fire
Ran this rap race and rig the finish line with a tripwire
You fam? I’ll stick by ya. I know the game’s been slow
But I’ll scratch the surface like I was tagging a train window
Brain nimble. I’ll fuck with your head and virgin eyes
When the Atlantic washes up on the West Coast and turned the tides
Think that commercialized verse is fly? Desert the sky
You’ll be the first to die when the universe and Earth collide
Angels circled high, fell out the air, stranded
Wouldn’t feel your shit if we wiped your ass barehanded
I’d slit my wrist, skin, flesh before you have me impressed
Plus, I snuffed your man, so fuck your fam like incest
Inspect the reason why my team is seen as live
‘Cause every opponent forfeits/four fits like between three and five
Be advised: I’ll murder you, commit my final deadly sin
And be at the gates of Heaven, screaming, “Jesus, let me in”
But it’s alright. I know you want me to take my own life
Come back and haunt your notebook so you don’t got to pay me to ghostwrite
I’ll hold spite if you playing a role/roll like dice games
I’m breaking the mold, told Satan my soul’s out his price range
Your beliefs’ll shatter as the so-called deepest rapper’s
Feeble data’s made equal to fecal matter. Let’s see
Who captures fate fastest, escapes a straitjacket
Says, “Fuck the world,” and fathers another eight planets
Scan my D.N.A. fabric, clone the genes, attack
Then introduce me to the result so I can meet my match
Face the facts: turn away, I’ll snap your vertebrae
Backpacker, your back fractured under the weight of the words
You say