Tek - 1, 2, Pa** it lyrics

[Verse 1: Mad Lion] Oh why, oh why, oh why, oh why Why does a DJ test and he end up die I know, I know, I know, I can't explain My copper shot just blow their brain Who are the man with the gun inna his hand Step up on the scene like Captain Caveman You want the music everybody scream louder Lick pure shot and smell the gun powder [Verse 2: Doug E. Fresh] On and on and on and on... Yo, freestyle flow to make the crowd just go The old to the new, the new to the old {Beatbox} The rhythm be working up on me The crowd be jumping up for me, the people are waiting up on me To enter the stage in the rage, Mad Lion's out the cage Now it's time for me to engage, uhh And bear witness, the lyrical fitness The jumps, the dives, the leaps, are you getting this? Next to step up, microphone check up KRS-ONE, so come and get your wreck up [Verse 3: KRS-ONE] Our mother who art in Heaven number seven is the weapon With the Goddess I'm stepping lyrically I'm never begging, you know I'm the difference between indo and oregano Imagine how fresh I am now, I made these lyrics up a year ago So report back it was fat, fit, all that, quick, pump that, drop the S-hit I'm lyrically physically fit Catch me bugging on the mic, every day and every night Every hour, every second, man it don't stop, get it, get it Yes, admit it when I'm way up in it You can't hide cause my radar's going bibip bibip bibip I reside in the watchtower watching MCs land Your career will be as short as my part in "Who's The Man" Goddamn I'm the pinnacle, yes the metaphysical Come to you as the rap god of lyrical syllables Fall to your knees, bring fruit, ask advice Put your rhymes on the altar, burn them as a sacrifice The aroma reaches up to my nostril I get hostile, your lyrics are stiff like David Koppel Yes Premier rocks the track on time KRS-ONE with off of the top of the head rhyme Yeah Fat Joe, you know you got a flow My man Doug E Fresh down with the one called KRS We got the mad MCs up in the D&D I'm out, G [Verse 4: Fat Joe] Yeah! Motherf**ers know who's the best If it ain't Fat Joe then it must be Lord Finesse Think not, then show what you got But don't grab this mic, the sh**'s too hot I'm the born k**er, n***a from the Bronx Rappers talk sh** but there's really no comp Bring it on if you think you can hang And if not then let me do my thing Yeah, so Smif-n-Wessun if you're down with me Represent one time on the M-I-C [Verse 5: Smif-n-Wessun] Mr. Ripper, get your gear and prepare for war Mr. Vickster, you ain't gotta tell me no more Cause what I see, on the daily Deals with reality, so come follow we on this journey Through Brooklyn where the crooks dwell in the projects overlooking In the form of the streets, you know them well Bet your a** this gra** is greener Than a 20 sack of sensimila brought straight from Medina You know the vibe when Smif-n-Wessun twist up the Thai Peace to my people in the Ville, peace to my heads in the Stuy We do or die, we test your stamina So any challenger we pa** the motherf**er off to the Damaja [Verse 6: Jeru the Damaja] Super scientifical madness My status is the baddest every time I bless the apparatus You wish to take me out, so you study Meanwhile my clothes, mics and foes are left bloody Cruddy, filthy from the ground on up When I plan my attack I doubt that you're ready Rain on competition like razor sharp confetti Kung Fu techniques from the perverted monastery Sifu Ru manipulates the microphone And rhymes like bullets penetrate your zone See we bring more drama than Kevin Costner No I'm not Jamaican but yes I'm a Rasta