[Intro: DJ Kay Slay]
|
It's a time for martyrs now, as the rap game that's in a crisis
|
Record sales continue to decline, record labels are mergin
|
And cats got confused on what's real hip hop
|
|
[Chorus: Busta Rhymes]
|
We got the real live spitters in the game of rap!
|
All you dudes say you nice, but you niggas is wack!
|
Where my lyricists at?! Where my lyricists at?!
|
Where the fuck you niggas at?! Where the lyricists at?!
|
|
[Verse 1: Big Lou]
|
I could carry the weight of Pun, ressurect Big L's lungs
|
And jack every single beat that Jam-Master Jay spun
|
I'm the lyrical son of Rakim, the jab of Bernard Hopkins
|
The voice of B.I.G. and Pac overlooked by Johnnie Coch-aran
|
The KRS-One doctrine, the monster in these niggas
|
That be posterin I'm robbin 'em in a whip they girlfriend drivin 'em
|
I'm butter without the margarine, the crack without the sizzle
|
The rain without the drizzle, the hammer without the chizle
|
The baller without the dribble, the scribble Scrabble, the Writer's Block
|
I bibble babble have the spit and flip the rip the chain that shackles
|
Had to fight and grapple and tackle the Rotten Apple
|
I traveled from Camden and met the Drama King at the tabernacle
|
Gave me the juice like a Snapple, ran with it like the Olympics
|
Encrypted my signature on templets for the cake like Krimpets
|
Move Atlantis, I Am Legend, knock a Troy to Armageddon
|
Lyrical prophet the hip hop heavens, raised by Latin Florida Evans
|
|
[Chorus: Busta Rhymes]
|
We got the real live spitters in the game of rap!
|
All you dudes say you nice, but you niggas is wack!
|
Where my lyricists at?! Where my lyricists at?!
|
Where the fuck you niggas at?! Where the lyricists at?!
|
|
[Verse 2: Papoose]
|
No lyrical content just typical nonsense
|
My mental too complexed to listen to garbage
|
Every lyric I palm breast he grippin a large tek
|
And killin you God bless that shit is too far fetched
|
Givin you are a threat then live it don't talk mess
|
Niggas in projects ain't feelin you more or less
|
This hittin your heart yes you miserable or stressed
|
Get rid of you y'all sets, finish your squad next
|
Pitiful process with spirits that's part flesh
|
We rip through your small chest with critical objects
|
Nigga you waan test the general confess
|
I'll injure you frauds best in criminal contest
|
No killa you harmless my birth involves death
|
Umbilical cords wrecked my little unborn neck
|
Before I get all dressed in greens and oppress
|
And walk through the yards vexed I rather graveyard rest
|
|
[Chorus: Busta Rhymes]
|
We got the real live spitters in the game of rap!
|
All you dudes say you nice, but you niggas is wack!
|
Where my lyricists at?! Where my lyricists at?!
|
Where the fuck you niggas at?! Where the lyricists at?! RAH!
|
|
[Verse 3: Papoose]
|
Totalos tiempo [?]
|
Contiene mal aliento I'll kill you tomorrow
|
Playin with Papoose like I ain't the rap truth
|
I'll kill 'em in that booth you doubt it go ask booth
|
Slay gave me the dice, I hit 'em with the deuce
|
They started laughin but man this the deuce that killed Bruce
|
|
[Verse 4: Big Lou]
|
The most original, lyrical criminal, leave you in critical
|
Torture and ridicule these pitiful rappers, I'm cynical
|
With the flow that's enormous, my swagger and stage performance
|
The corners I sold to foreigners, they zoners tryin to extort us
|
The coca I dropped in waters, supporters I'm crossin borders
|
Papa blessin me with orders, I never move like the tortoise
|
I rather move like the Testarossa, eat like I'm in Ponderosa
|
2008 Keyser Sosa, I'm shittin on all these chokers
|
|
[Chorus: Busta Rhymes]
|
We got the real live spitters in the game of rap!
|
All you dudes say you nice, but you niggas is wack!
|
Where my lyricists at?! Where my lyricists at?!
|
Where the fuck you niggas at?! Where the lyricists at?!
|
|
-----------------
|
The Last Lyricist
|
Papoose |