Songtexte: Wicked. Other. Whatever.

(feat. Black Mas, Raekwon)

[Intro: Raekwon (Black Mas)]
Fightin' like a lost soul (word, they can't fight)
Herb raps, word up son (they can't fight this)
Knowhatimsayin? Gotta run through this at all times
You hear me, (word up) right, yeah (so we understandin' this shit)
Aight, word, knawhatimean? (bring that shit back)

[Chorus: Raekwon]
Whatever dunn, show 'em, represent how you do yours
Connect four, major niggas, float, do tours
It's like this, check out the marvelous cats who bust, only us
Red Rums, slide through, dunn, what, who bumped it, what?

[Wicked]
Aiyo, it's the L.O.'s and the Chef, cookin' up some marvelous
Servin' niggas whoever cuz they impatiently starve for this
Apocalypse upon your clicks for tryin' to change over
I write my rhymes top of line, like fuckin' Range Rovers
I aim cobras wit wind blowers, international flame throwers
Wipe out your whole territory, and leave your smell in strange odors
I bring folders, to the real hip hop
So try to front up on my click, and kid, you will get dropped
I build this poppest disaster, crash your land flash
I "flex" like Funk, then I "flash" like Grandmaster
Ask you who the nicest, on mic devices
My lyrical crisis'll have you seein' "illusions" like Cypress
You bite this, wanna write this, so I might just
Teach you like them "teachers", that's "poor" and "righteous"
Sit you down and recite this, I like this
My crew shinin' wit tight sips, ya'll fools want
From a taste of Red Rum, wit a slight twist of Lou Diamond
I rule rhymin', ain't no if, ands, about that
Ask niggas around the way, you can beat me
They be like, "nah, I doubt that"
He's dangerous, don't try to follow, I'm sure to loose you
I hit you wit tons and pounds of heavy shit like Yokozuna
Get you growin' tumor, for tryin' think about my fly shit
And fuckin' wit this and you ain't gotta be livin' the fast life to die quick

[Chorus]

[Black Mas]
Yo, clear the way and bring your crews, about to ship on to Michigan
Got you twitchin' kid, official gear, got you bitchin' kid
Pay attention, kid, we get low down wit four down lyrical styles
Go down, wit more grounds, you tow down, we blow shit
Oh shit, flip, we control shit, we roll thick
Play me close, kid, get your dome split
Wit chrome grips, collected thought, style of all sorts
Playin' niggas like sports, on courts, holdin' down fort
Nigga soft, takin' virginity from niggas daughters
You be, B., I ain't havin' it, like baseheads wit nine dollars and four quarters
I'm bringin' drama to your grounds, keep it rugged raw
Before you battle me, go to Apollo and rub that fuckin' log
I eight-six and knock your ass out the boxing rings
Nigga, fuckin' up backs like beds wit no backspring

[Chorus]

[Raekwon]
What's the cake? He tried to front of dope mink
This no name nigga wit game, straight outta Spain
Shell blowers, we cardiac arrest elbowers
Rock rovers, like hangin' above God shoulder
Yea, we gettin' ours, you flower head cats is cowards
We buckin' birds like Adina Howard
Rich niggas allow it, you know it done right, black
Bulletproof ski hats, Siamese, beings wit the dezack
The dice rollers, the Motorola glock holders
Yo, hold this, six hundred Benz niggas for soldiers
We top notch, Rocky watch, blood son, guzzle spots
Glass spot, run in your bitch, smack your pops
Mack style to this, murder one style, shit's miraculous
Half of this, I'm hittin' at home wit Indianopolis

[Chorus x2]