Stupid Def

[Intro: Poison Pen and (C-Rayz Walz)] Fresh, y’all (Fresh, y’all) All y’all (Yes, y’all) To the top (Yes, y’all) ‘Til we out of breath, y’all Right, y’all (Left, y’all) Funky funk (Fresh, y’all) East, y’all (West, y’all) [?] to the death, y’all [Verse 1: Percee P] We’re now in your auditory canal. I’m a stereo sound Try to get with the P and this’ll be burial ground I entice and charge the largest price To rock pockets of [?] [the fact that I’m that nice?] Liable to take your title with my vital rap recital And this epitome—consider me the idol From the Bronx—the shit. my response is quick If you diss me or piss me off, I’mma stomp your dick Strictly poetical, dope knows a rope from a [?] Quoted and [?]. Folks catching the vapors is the result Leaking words from ink pens, leave you thinking Gotta rewind every line from a rhyme, find a distinct [?] Perc’ is cold-chilling—my shows is so thrilling My flow is the fourth villain—I’m [?] killing For every hottie jocking me in every party I’ll pull some bags. Never [?], but [sticking?] everybody Lyrical chef—adversaries are left Dying, crying by horrifying—the case is the faces of death The P is uno. You know? Number O-N-E ‘Cause I know and he know and she know and we know the [?] emcees That can touch the P or fuck with me, but luckily [?] [Verse 2: Poison Pen] Yo, it’s like, “Yes, yes, y’all,” to the beat. [All?] Keep on in the dance in my b-boy stance Poison Pen. I’ll smack you to friend Now you look like Siamese twins—looking at [?] like, “Where they find these kids?” My voice make anything I chant to an anthem Put on your rap [caps?], leave the floor, start discussing weather Strictly rewind material—repeat mine Let’s take it outside—I’ll beat you ass with a street sign See my [?] from your plaque and make [?], kid (Fuck you doing here?) [?] something Reversed into creation, fornication—yo, you feeling [?] Celebrating living, but when the corks fly, you could lose an eye Poison Pen and they rock Bed-Stuy [Verse 3: C-Rayz Walz and (Poison Pen)] Of course I’m fresh (Of course I’m fly) Like planes on the ground (Take off to the sky) Some people know (Others ask, “Why?”) All the shorties follow us like the ice cream guy Like the ice cream guy (like the ice cream guy?) Like the ice cream guy (like the ice cream guy?) Like the ice, like the ice, like the ice cream guy This is hip for real [?] ‘Cause I’m strong like the Donkey Kong gorilla Make a mill at the most. Iller styles that top [Dilla?] Who shot squealers. You [cross?] [?] like Glock dealers Mad colorful, but I’m true precision My right hook’ll make you see the world in Kool-G-vision Wile loud like the locks on Goonie missions This flick shit got you slipping like, “Yo, my booty dripping” Fact or fiction: you still play the back like Pippen You should [acrobatics?] tight on mics—you ain’t flipping Start dipping. Jet, get your mittens, little kitten Run—the MCs I battle be missing I say, “Damn!” Still repping the peeps I straight BLAM! My best weapon’s the beat Yo, you stepping to C? I’m collecting your fee Let’s swing an episode of speech backseat of my Jeep In the street, Casio, or MPC My technique through audio or MP3 My [?] clip yelling, “Empty me!” (“Empty me!”) Putting heads to bed. Putting heads to rest now I write down screenplays for my [?] [Verse 4: L.I.F.E. Long] I rhyme in black fitted-out sets while Shadowboxing with the silhouette of death gasping for breath Tryna find the light [?] of darkness My world parallel to hell where fools dwell with the same stories to tell Everybody wants they record to sell But I’d rather excel than spit nothing over recycled [?] Too many get caught up in the same money scheme, which makes you wonder, “How many damn ways [?]” Talking queen but holding [?]—that’s why I’m issuing out waitlists for the rent Cracking your chin, leaving you with a permanent cleft [Verse 5: Orko the Sycotik Alien] My broken English of a beat-breaks underground overlord Unemotional, unattached with an unorthodox angle Walk with an angel of death. My breath control like Storm, the mutant X-Man I don’t assimilate, so don’t associate my name with weakness in the chain—that don’t fit Funny how MCs that wanna freestyle all night long Don’t got enough composure and focus to write a dope song I’d rather sock your mouth than say a dope line No metaphors or similes—victory is mine