[Verse 1: Pharoahe Monch]
   Ah Pharoahe Monch yeah
   I said; yes yes y'all to the beat y'all
   We tryin' to teach the young and get the loot
   And steer it like havin' a ball
   Hey hey hey
   We try to walk a little bit like this I say
   I hate rap promoters I start to motor
   Talk from Southside to North Minnesota
   Dre gramm of yea with a small cup of soda
   Never get the women with the underarm odour
   Sky town Motorola holder who rocks bolder than all
   To fall when they try to call me the cold shoulder
   Try to tell these younger kids to come a little older
   The more is about to happen and we need our little soldiers
  
   [Verse 2: Ras Kass]
   I riggedy rock, I riggedy wreck shot
   Nah hahaha I'm fuckin' with y'all
   I fall through parallel universes with a gun
   And murder myself the games strength like Jet Li in The One
   Get bean you slum-slumming
   Sippin' a little some-something
   Pop and Big Pun it's nothing to front, get the dappin'
   Something up in here y'all gon' make me lose my mind
   Use my nine, and do my time
   I do my grime, and spit rhymes freaky, hear it out
   For new hoes and constant rappers the shiekiest
   Be beneath me, no rapper could defeat me
   Like puttin' your face in faeces, I talk shit
   Who I be? Real nigga with the fake I.D
  
   O.G., B.G., L.A., N.Y.C
  
   The matrix is radio and T.V
  
   [Chorus: Pharoahe Monch (& Ras Kass)]
   I see; designer glasses, titties and masses
   For luxurous beats, that bumps, that move the masses
   Desastrous beats that strife V.I.P.-passes
   It's on (It's on?) It's on
   (I see; sex money and why murder and crime
   Good time, soldiers that cry for lust and the shine
   Bitlies bitches that break ballers
   All us wanna be shakola's callin' call us)
  
   [Verse 3: Pharoahe Monch]
   Basic I was too advanced to advance
   Now who's the chansellor?
   You couldn't scrap if you was one of Big Daddy Kane's dancers
   The answer but not for the '76's
   I put your lips on, stick ya dick in your mouth
   And put your lips, where your dick was, sideways pushin'
   Punks try to prevoke chess styles and push me
   Queens shit (Come on!) Queens shit (Come on!)
   Fuck around and get your motherfucking screen split (Come on!)
  
   [Verse 4: Ras Kass]
   Thorough, on turntables for technicians to play it
   Hi-Tek lady for Pharoahe Monch to slay it
   I triple all waited Ras whiplash
   (Why I grow voices) wrapping this wraf with big wax
   Really, hah, I refuse to rock consumers
   Cause sworn groupies get mad and spread rumours like
  
   "Do you hear what I hear"
  
   [Pharoahe]
   I heard gay rappers that thugged, a lot of nerve
  
   [Ras]
   Can you believe that shit Monch?
  
   [Pharoahe]
   Word, word, I heard a lot of murderers ain't really murderers
   And it's absurd was they frontin' like they never heard of us
  
   [Ras]
   Niggas playin' king-pin but only perps service oil
   Playin' they want beef but really only heard of wars
   If you want to party trunk and wanna get crunked
   Throw ya hands up! Bitches, throw ya hands up!
  
   [Chorus](2x)