Eddie Ill & D.L. - Oktober, Ike P, and Diabolic Freestyle (A Long Rhyme Coming: The 1999 to 2002 Sessions Pt. 1) lyrics

[Intro: Oktober] Yes, yes, yeah, yeah. It's gonna go down like, uh, Eddie Ill, D.L. It's like, check it, yo [Verse 1: Oktober] I'll burn bushes in the backwoods mid-summer with Black hoods, stepping from the path of flatfoots Illuminati got my address in their black books Hiding out five miles north of Flatbush Suspect: native son from The Bronx. I'll trans- -form like Decepticons in Brooknam It was war ‘cause it took long. Song's for the Headstrong wearing crowns of thorns when I perform I'm dead-wrong, spit speech off of the beat Flows leak from Orchard Beach to Dawson's Creek Burn leaves backseat, subway car northeast f** police. Travel hours are off-beat Got [?]. Express out of service Then emerge from below on the outer surface Verse for verse, they worthless. I'll reverse World Order Get blown out the water like Pearl Harbor Hit me with the detail. Oktober 1978@aol email If we don't meet again, then I'll see you in Hell Or peep the exclusive Eddie Ill & D.L [Verse 2: Ike P] Yo, a lot of My n***as is curious—they always be asking me: Can I make Ja Rule run from a battle Fast ‘cause I'm Furious? This style's so mysterious, you'll never figure it out Rip ligaments, spit with an ignorant mouth, causing records In terror, real to the letter when this record come out. I'll have n***as switch up they gimmicks, make ‘em take different routes Create dangerous documents, k** a columnist when I'm rhyming this The n***a that's so raw draw blood like phlebotomists God damn it, I'm kind of pissed—that's why I insist To diss n***as thinking that they really the sh** From R&B singers and actors to these wack [rap craze?] It's a fact anyone could get it when you challenge my wit Blessed with talent and a fabulous gift. f** that Fabolous Kid. He sound like Mase put some dick in his jizz A tough critic that always critique what weak n***as speak The streets know the truth, so I speak lyric proof for the streets The majority of you rappers should get used to defeat I'm using this beat as an outlet, bruising egos for cheese [?]. Hot bars char and bake I'll smack you so hard, make you do the Harlem Shake f*ggot [Interlude 1: Diabolic and Ike P] Ike P: Word up. Eddie E & D.L. will rock well. Cvees. f**awackrapper.com—log on, yo Diabolic: Eddie Ill, D.L. Diabolic [Verse 3: Diabolic] Yo, I'll make Rappers that of a cadaver after the ma**acre, smacking the Piss out of ya like bladders attached to catheters Stabbing your cardiovascular. No arteries are hard to see If I was an organ donor, you'd still want no parts of me I'm smoking a Garcia V-E-G-A every weekday Burning brain cells to forget the wack sh** emcees say If DJs spun the true sh**, I'd have clipped you undisputed Depriving your baby-blue skies of the Sun's approval We've begun the movement, drink kerosene, spit fire Ran this rap race and rig the finish line with a tripwire You fam? I'll stick by ya. I know the game's been slow But I'll scratch the surface like I was tagging a train window Brain nimble. I'll f** with your head and virgin eyes When the Atlantic washes up on the West Coast and turned the tides Think that commercialized verse is fly? Desert the sky You'll be the first to die when the universe and Earth collide Angels circled high, fell out the air, stranded Wouldn't feel your sh** if we wiped your a** barehanded I'd slit my wrist, skin, flesh before you have me impressed Plus, I snuffed your man, so f** your fam like incest Inspect the reason why my team is seen as live ‘Cause every opponent forfeits/four fits like between three and five Be advised: I'll murder you, commit my final deadly sin And be at the gates of Heaven, screaming, “Jesus, let me in” But it's alright. I know you want me to take my own life Come back and haunt your notebook so you don't got to pay me to ghostwrite I'll hold spite if you playing a role/roll like dice games I'm breaking the mold, told Satan my soul's out his price range Your beliefs'll shatter as the so-called deepest rapper's Feeble data's made equal to fecal matter. Let's see Who captures fate fastest, escapes a straitjacket Says, “f** the world,” and fathers another eight planets Scan my D.N.A. fabric, clone the genes, attack Then introduce me to the result so I can meet my match Face the facts: turn away, I'll snap your vertebrae Backpacker, your back fractured under the weight of the words You say