Pumpkinhead - Lincoln Center lyrics

[Intro: Pumpkinhead] Yo, yo, Jo Chris, what's the deal? Yo, son, I'm listening to that track you made, son. [No silence?]. We need to both get on that joint. It's gon' be sick. Gon' be sick—just like live at Lincoln Center, son. Straight up and down, Pumpkinhead, Jo Chris. n***as ain't f**ing with that, son. Straight up and down. Yo, son, I'll be right there. I'll be right there. I know you in there. I know you there. I know you at the studio, son. n***as ain't f**ing with it [Verse 1: Pumpkinhead] We live at Lincoln Center with the poisonous raps Sported-out, low-down with the teddy-bear hats Bringing the ghetto to you. Now what you think about that? I black out on any track and I'm heavily strapped Me and Jo Chris is like Armageddon on wax Chemical warfare, mustard gas, and anthrax Wiling out like razorbacks on cats, faking jacks I'm the sickest alive, airborning on DAT Crazy like junkies on crack In the dark, surrounded by twelve monkeys with gats I tie a bungie to your thorax Push you off the building, black. Watch you hit the floor and fall back Brooklyn Ac' hit you with the force to push your skull back I shine so bright, my battle raps give you cataracts Free beats like lesbians with candle wax I'm too sick—n***as can't handle that I'm that toothpick that broke the camel's back [Hook: Pumpkinhead] (x2) Yo, we live, live, live from Lincoln Center Respect that, wipe your feet before you enter Millennium rap—we the number one contenders Surrender. Live, live from Lincoln Center [Verse 2: Jo Chris] Yo, as the real turns, my words burn like perms through your flesh I yearn for disgraceful MCs to burn like a rash I come forth with a legion of MCs who didn't believe it Hit your chest, end up holding your heart like you was pledging allegiance Yo, Pumpkinhead flow with me, blow through these n***as frozen [un-trollably?] You know it's we, leaving these n***as with d**h grips on the rosaries Drop him where he stands, stuff him under the sofa's upholstery These n***as on some sh** like, “We don't hold our hoes so closedly” But these [whispers?] present the facts, bringing truth from the fictitious With vicious raps, leaving all you b**h n***as slapped [Plus, we taxing all you witches?], left you with about fifty stitches The cops can't get a lead, son—(Why?)—we wacked all the witnesses Jo Chris of Tongues, Pumpkinhead of Brooklyn Ac' Yeah, I said it, ock, so what the f** you looking at? My man's outside now, catching jux out back Yo, just bring in the hook before I decide to react [Hook: Pumpkinhead] (x2) Yo, we live, live, live from Lincoln Center Respect that, wipe your feet before you enter Millennium rap—we the number one contenders Surrender. Live, live from Lincoln Center [Outro: Jo Chris] Ayyo, Pumpkinhead, this is Jo Chris, son. Word. I know you... definitely feel kind of early, son, but I finished mixing down the track, son. [?], tell him, “You'll be mad satisfied, dude.” Nah'mean? Platinum-status-type sh**. Nah'mean? Time is up, baby. Hit me back. One