Live And Direct From The House Of Hits

[Verse 1: Craig G] Clear the aisle, here comes another new syle By the brothers who file under "dope" (dope?) Craig and Trag (uh huh), we comin' back at 'cha With a new batch of rhymes that get better by the chapter And they mean a whole lot When speakin' upon the rhymes that we droppin' When we drop 'em You'll witness creativity to the fullest Chartin' with clips, not bullets My name has been inflicted in the hip hop legend And believe me, as I get older we're gonna get better (mm hmm) Now tell it to your offsprings So they can follow through, just like it was a golf swing Craig G is here to rocket it Back on the map like a spot on the continent (here we go) Killin' off all the false prophets You took the rap industry and tried to hold it hostage (give it up) So forget the shackles this ain't Roots Just pass me a pair of Timberland boots So I can kick a mud hole dead in your chest (damn) Then I say calmly, "'Ey, who's the best?" Cause I get respect off of dope mic checks Rappers with wreck, they don't come next To the Trag (yeah), If you're all in it (uh huh) Grab the mic and get busy for a minute [Verse 2: Tragedy] The style is locked in your brain and you can't think But when you try to bite, your pen runs outta ink This ain't on a pop tip to sell out or sell on You thought I fell off but Tragedy fell on Mics I'm grabbin' it, rippin' and stabbin' it The T the R the A the G, you see I ain't havin' it Emcees are soft like cotton candy But my rap is stronger than your poppa's brandy Renegade rebel with a style that's well-put Gettin' funky just like an athlete's foot So don't put your feet in my shoes, you can't fit 'em I kill mics, and MCs that come wit' 'em However, to dis you, is not the main issue Cause I can take a shit and use your raps for my tissue Like use your record cover just to pick up my trash Like a wicked stepfather, I be whippin' that ass You don't want to go the length cause your lyrics won't last I don't smoke cracks but I do break backs And I smoke mics off of Marley Marl's tracks Cause out of the House of Hits is where the funk flows And he's a hitman, killing you real slow So Craig G, you're on my side? Get on the mic and let the syllables slide Authentic (Authentic?) That's the way I present it [Verse 3: Craig G] Sometimes it's funky and sometimes it's demented Rapper's runnin' up to me handin' me feedback Slow down kid before you enter a speed trap Wit' your neck snap, so accept that So won't ya calmly give the devil his check back Take your soul but your title (up it yo??) And bring your whack ass rhymes to the muppet show See I don't give a fuck how much swing you got And ha! how ya album climbs on the charts Your still a dead rapper from Christmas past So won't you pucker up and kiss this ass Cause I'm in there, even on leap year I make it for the others with this fly ass beat Yeah and you-- you make a drastic drop You couldn't stop me if you were a traffic cop (that's right) That just reminds me of my radio days When I would take a mic and leave rappers amazed (word?) No matter how large with the gold and platinum I take a microphone and beat the shit right after And after I was finished they'd say "Craig G scored" And that's the way I usually would rock New York So yo Trag (yo!), you know you're pumpin' and potent (all righty) Get on the mic and rip the shit wide open [Verse 4: Tragedy] Now ya caught within my mental mazes I'm equipped so it's easy to flip phrases Can't compare my books to your pages Roll over bacon, it's time for Sizzlean Pass the mic and I chop it like a guillotine Smoother than Barry White-- when I take flight Twenty MCs against me is a fair fight Use my mind and I flow just like fluid Sound waves and walls and I walk right through it So don't play yourself, let the Trag do it Ya slept on the freestyle, thought I couldn't wreck a track But like a Jheri curl I snap right back To remain as a motivated rebel And still get ill just like a Tasmanian devil Live and direct from the house of hits Raps are so funky that they kick like (??) Tell your last rhyme and breathe your last breath Cause battlin' Trag is like playin' with death And pickin' up a mic is like Russian Roulette I'm aimin' the mic at the crowd like a Tech 9 You tried to get yours but now I got mine Just like (??) you'll be out of there Maybe next year, too late I'm in there Craig G, the one and only one (yeah) We're out of here I guess our job is done