Percee P Freestyle (Brothers on the Slide: The Lost Freestyle Sessions)

[Intro: Percee P]
Yeah, yeah, it’s The Monarch of the Subterranean, Legendary Lethal Lyricist, The Rhyme Inspector Percee P up in this place, y’all. BX, Boogie Down Bronx, y’all. In case you don’t know, Patterson projects. Representing for my man DJ Unknown and DJ Mek. Check the sets, y’all. Check it. Uh, uh

[Verse 1: Percee P]
I’m not your average
Man bragging, toe- or hand-tagging, fifty-gram bagging
Pants sagging, trigger nigga on the bandwagon, huh
I know this nigga named Ricky. His girl Nikki want to
Get with me, said, “Stick me—just a quickie. Lick me and leave a hickie”
I’ll stick instead of tricking bread with these chickenheads
One got slick and said I ain’t shit in bed—she must be licking lead
You'd better let your gods recognize The Rhyme Inspector high
I’ll never sweat them lies about me. Haters, check your eyes
One verse, lung burst as I done first. Slums
Guns, hearses don't stun Perc’—where I'm from's worse
Got a ladder on stage. Women running, coming every age
I’ll fling the ring on my finger—this singer lingers unengaged
Stacks of rhymes no match for mine. Tracks are shined
Leave you back in time. When I build, I still ain’t at my prime
Accept you’re facing trial. This shit is wild. I’ll turn the dial
Niggas stealing my style—I should file for reparations
It’s like this and like that, y’all. Black
I’m back to smack these wack new jacks who rap, y’all

[Interlude 1: Percee P]
It’s like this. Check it out, y’all. Uh, uh, supply the checks

[Verse 2: Percee P]
Known from Cali, Chi to LAX. My respect and styles
Some try to get, but die direct from the side effects. You crave
Perc’ ‘cause I'm well-equipped with predicate. You’re too
Delicate for this fellow—flip, kid, you’d better get saved first
Call freaks—pretty, no flawed feet, all sweet—small peeks
'Cause my Stocks Exchanged, they're Wall Street
Stealer-slick, kicking the illest hits. Who kill us quick
When our building spit more rounds than Bruce Willis flicks? Ideas
And flow raise eyelids—that's why kids make hybrid
Rhymes supplied with stuff this guy did years ago
To grasp a taste, have to place ‘em in a glass or case
And observe from a NASA space center with a mask on face
Turf: BX. Scorn kids, leave their borns with
Birth defects. Uh. Remain clean
I’ll claim teams that became fiends. Strange gleams
Go through vein streams, leave gangrene. My name rings bells
Sick of you. Shit you do is predictable. Kick a few
On your cut like a ritual. P’s works incredible
Some said I do sound like a clever few that’s poetical
Theoretical—nah, kid, you’d better do research
Thousand short, files in courts said I reproduce
So many from my styles, I’m fought for child support
Better shit. Come clever with stuff fighters never did, except it gets
Hot like a beverage. Those that never hit need leverage

[Outro: Percee P]
Yeah, yeah. I’m throwing root beers in your fridge, kid. I’ma give a shout-outs to my peoples: the Vinyl Dogs, Indie 5000, my man T La Rock, y’all. Remember “It’s Yours.” Saga. My man Rhymer, the poetical masochist. The Molemen out in Chicago, Chi Town. My man Apathy. And don’t forget J-Zone, y’all