Icon (of Brooklyn Academy) - Brooklyn Academy Freestyle (The Time Has Come!) lyrics

[Intro: Icon] Psss. Oh my God, yo! Hah, these n***as wild out, son! Yo, Eddie Ill, man, do you know what you just did putting these guys on your tape? Yo, these n***as is straight off the... yo, they be wiling. Yo, Brooklyn Ac', DJ Eddie Ill, DL 3. We're coming at you live in 3-D. Is you ready for this, man? Brooklyn Ac' [Verse 1: Mr. Metaphor] Ayyo, we indestructible. Son, it's real like that You can shoot me with a bullet—it'll heal right back I'll eat forty emcees as a real light snack Yo, where the mic at? I lay my game down quite flat I got a tight rap I'ma stick in your head With a big fat blunt to leave you glistening red All the ladies know I'm bad, bad and wicked in bed ‘Cause some cats bite the bush, but I lick it instead But, girl, I'm only going down if you giving me head And I'ma "Put It On, Put It On" like Kid Capri said Son, I'm tougher than leather. I'll rip a verse like cheap thread Then put my hand on dick and make you hooked (DJ!) I got no regrets, no weight on my back Put on your seatbelt strap—it ain't safe on my track f** putting out a name—I want my face on the map I want them gimme-head shorties with their face in my lap Snake in the gra**, I got your girl shaking her a** I'll roll with grimy BK cats who rake in your cash Son we 'robbing old folks and making a dash Jumping through storefronts wild and breaking the gla** I'm only looking towards the future, stay away from my past ‘Cause I looked d**h in the face when I was eight-and-a-half Emcees is D- work. Son, I'm acing the cla** You circus clown acts, y'all keep making me laugh [Verse 2: Icon] Ayyo, ayyo, a n***a like me want to get paid in these streets These streets, yo, they Canada Dry. I'll lay you back With the plans in my mind, party dumb We're in the back with our hats in the front, pa**ing the blunt If there's beef, then we blasting them up. If I don't know you I don't f** with you counterfeit thugs. n***a ‘Cause y'all just rent them cars. n***a, you semi-hard I'ma hit you with the semi—now you semi-gone And if you want to battle, duke, I'll pull a gat on you I'ma put a hole in you and your man in back of you And your man that's in back of him n***a, that's only one bullet—imagine ten I'll k** a whole club. Hold up I got it sewn up, my n***as roll up And y'all n***as ain't no thugs, never sold d** I'll spit ‘til I ain't got no spit. I'll spit During a lunar eclipse. I'll spit ‘til I ain't got no lips I'ma spit until my skin fall off Everything I spit is sick—I ain't well no more Hell's my cure, freed Jesus who was nailed to the cross Swallow the devil, spit fire out the sh** pitchfork [Verse 3: Block McCloud] Yo, yo, yo, yo I'll beat you down like Hedda Nussbaum On a bus bound for uptown ‘cause you wouldn't gimme a bus down You ain't truly hard—I'll pull your card on a boulevard Rob you for your j**elry guard and juvie card ‘Cause I'm a full retard—in fact, I'll slap you silly I'll tap the jelly out your capillary Son, you're harmless—at your very worst, you an accomplice A sidekick. You ride dicks, you like a armrest You get elbowed! You're just a p**ycat with a p**y rap I'll peel your cap and push it back You a has-been. You ain't lasting. I can't get ate in fasting Get tossed fast into the trash bin You poo-putt, you'll get chewed up like new gut You're a b**h: screwed up, knocked up, then tubes cut You don't come/cum off, blue nuts. You're bashful Battling Block's a handful you can't handle [Verse 4: Pumpkinhead] I'll spit faster than the average rapper. Brooklyn Ac' A bunch of ba*tards that'll jack ya quicker than a flash of Black talons coming at ya. Pistol packer We want your money, your wife, and the keys to your Acura And the number to your manager So we can whip his a** for even thinking you got stamina n***a, we professionals with guns and the cameras So smile and say, “Cheese.” I'll put one in your bandana I'll spit that sick sh** that give your mans cancer Black Panther disguised as a panhandler Elbow you in the face like Tito Santana You can tell we hungry, you can tell we grungy I'll smoke blunts in front of the church every Sunday Abuse crews ‘cause they got loose screws like Kelly Bundy I can tell you dummies, I can tell you funny And I can tell you gay like the purple Teletubby [Hook: Icon] (x2) Ayyo, Brooklyn Ac', n***as. We slap n***as Battle wack n***as strapped with MAC millas co*k back and slap average rap n***as Snap tracks with the impact to crack pillars Battle for dough, battle for shines Battle for whips, battle for chips. n***a, it's on! Ayyo, battle for hoes, battle for dimes Battle for streets, battle for beats. n***a, it's on!