Eddie Ill & D.L. - Vak**, Qwel, Prime, and Ma** Hysteria Freestyle (A Long Rhyme Coming: The 1999 to 2002 Sessions Pt. 1) lyrics

[Intro: Vak**] Big [?]. Uh. Eddie Ill, D.L. Look out for the album. Vak**. Uh. Ravenous. Molemen for life. n***a, what? Huh? [Verse 1: Vak**] In this world Designed in linen and ice-driven, I actually Flip advice, giving an earner nice living in turn I'm too nice for your own good. Would be nice if you had A fan base of at least one single motherf**er from your own hood Pities no more. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Never mattered Who the nicest. I'm nice and you ain't sh** but a nice track And that's just being nice about it. You need to have a nice One to save face like a presidential rodeo with the ice about it Careful who you f**ing and flowing with. I'm throwing spit Spitefully deep-rooted and I got a nice way of showing sh** But nothing nice, nothing nice and dig around in your drawers Fight off a mic feedback and get a nice round of applause Spit twice the phlegm, drop Christ a gem ‘til God tell him “Go, ‘Hey,' say, ‘Thank you,' son. That was awfully nice of him” I shine to precisely Sun/son, spit ultraviolet and spill Crimson-red with a black ballpoint. Nicely done While you worry ‘bout making nice impressions, you should I got all of you suspect-a** n***as, so-called “nice” in question Whether you got a nice a** or a thug real with an ice Core in ya, to put it nicely, f** you and nice knowing ya [Interlude 1: Qwel] Qwel, Chicago underground hip hop. Molemen on the beat [Verse 2: Qwel] Heads beware, bear witness to the birth of lyricism Dangle raps by the ankles, spank ‘em to the rhythm The sh** kids be spitting gets kittens belittled f** with Qwel once—me—now he's sprinting like a cripple Tried to move the crowd, fast-forward diction Chicago took rap back, didn't ask your permission Conception was concept. Never sporting fashion Like a simile spitting metaphorgasms That's when forfeits happen—smacking your gums It spits facts while you brag of packing a gun It never has to waste time on faking a 9. If you Were really hardcore, would you have to make it rhyme? For the last time, you just got pa**ed like a scholar Your sh** don't make sense, but sense/cents don't make dollars Cla** is in session—best not question the teacher Rocking a “What Would Ma** Hysteria Do?” T-shirt Pointing a finger at Prime and Vak**, scaring Heads underground like ostriches. The rhymes I build Are infinite. Yo, we spit it, live it every aspect Divvying dividends for dues for those who slept [Interlude 2: Prime] Yeah, yeah, Prime. Check. Uh, uh. Yo, uh [Verse 3: Prime] Consider my raps Laced with arsenic when I spit on a play tape I'll deliver the facts straight: you cats sitting in last place Don't approach me on sh**. I'll disfigure your man's face That's the penalty to pay each time this cat demands space I'm past wasting time, forced to split seconds and break habits You beating me's a funny thought like a gay cat rocking a straitjacket I hate rappers, heard y'all n***as spit these days And every single one of y'all b**hes sounds like sh** these days I'll quickly spray cats with a dose of the verb So if you see me up in your cypher, don't say a word Remain silent—talking smack'll get you laid to the curb I'll strip your pockets of your hash and start blazing your herb I've observed the way you cats came in the game this year And I respect that, but y'all don't know who y'all are playing with here Y'all ain't my peers. Y'all emcees are hardly even men And kids are so wack nowadays, I'm listening to R&B again So see me spend time with each line that I put down And look how these shook clowns all want to be crooks now I'll stay vexed for days. I got you rewinding and pressing “Play” I got your mom—kid, I'm rocking you right now at your present age Heads are slain—cowards and nerds gotta get served I'll write your verses on my nuts and force you to swallow your words So don't f** with Prime or me or mine. All of us are spoken for I'm laughing at you trying to spit them punchlines through a broken jaw What? [Interlude 3: Mike Treese (of Ma** Hysteria)] Yeah. It's Mike Treese from Ma** Hysteria. One time. Check it out [Verse 4: Mike Treese (of Ma** Hysteria)] Right now You following the sounds of this Chicagoan, Hyde Parker The mic sparker. I'll bite the ill sh** like Clive Barker Far from a jive-talker, the midnight stalker You dread. Ligotti blast chumps until they're dead Use shotties, fill ‘em with more lead than gas pumps Take hotties in cash lumps, leave their bodies in trash dumps I'm orchestrating, creating it morbid. The raw sh** I'm saying is making you forfeit and worship Satan When emcees are tripping, that just get me to empty The clip in this microphone, titanium-gripping To put it simply: I'm ripping. You can't prevent me from flipping Don't ask why they sent me. Evidently, you're slipping So, chief, you would've played like a Hindu and be Not into beef ‘cause I'll send you grief you've never been through Ain't no relief for what my pen do. I'll get all up in Your metabolism, slow you down like a bag of izm Snap, I'll wet up kids like a baptism, rap to the rhythm And cause a cataclysm to this wack system of capitalism I got mad lyrics, lyrics that'll make you mad Lyrics'll that diss you bad ‘cause they lyrics you wish you had But you ain't no Big Willy, you silly cat. Your pockets is Filled with olestra, meaning they're not really fat And my man Panik got the bombing speeds. Peace to my atomic peeps Emcees see treats and cover their grills like Islamic freaks [Interlude 4: Gee-Field (of Ma** Hysteria) and Mike Treese (of Ma** Hysteria)] Mike Treese (of Ma** Hysteria): Yeah Gee-Field (of Ma** Hysteria): Yeah, it's like that, y'all. Check it out, check it out, check it, yo [Verse 5: Gee-Field (of Ma** Hysteria)] Yo, my adrenaline peaks when rocking over sinister beats So respect when this minister speaks, diminishing geeks I'm making papers even when I'm asleep. Panik'll mix This sh** down, plus add the finishing tweaks. I'll keep The Timberlands laced up in case ducks Get out of place, end up with your face maced up, neck braced up It's on now. My lines leave you in suspense I'm hard to see through like a Regal with illegal tints And I don't brag on how I co*k pistols. That sh** Is artificial like training bras to be stuffed with Scott tissues Whoever try to f** with Gee-Field, they got issues I'll fly high over your headquarters and drop missiles Blowing up your battle station, making you die From heavy inhalation of nuclear radiation So lyrical that you could get ragged from just a syllable My physical presence is felt even when I'm not visible So you don't want to excite me. Flows be feisty And complex like the mental aspects of tai chi Invite me to a battle, mistake's drastic You fake ba*tards rather take acid and jump in Lake Placid I'll make cla**ics, so once the tape's mastered Purchase it and never hesitate to blast it And I don't give a f** if it's live or prerecorded Crystal-clear or distorted, imported or mail-ordered Just run out and support it. You won't regret that you bought it You got to get it—shoplift it if you can't afford it [Outro: Gee-Field (of Ma** Hysteria) and Mike Treese (of Ma** Hysteria)] Like that y'all. Yeah (Yeah), Summerside Town's finest. Yeah, we had my man Vak**, Qwel, Big Prime, Mike Treese and Gee-Field from Ma** Hysteria. Yeah, my man Panik on the beat. Molemen, Eddie Ill & D.L. It's like that, y'all. Yeah, yeah