[Verse 1: L-Fudge]
Yo, check it out. I don't know if should start rhyming straight off the top
Or should I just blow up the spot with something that's in my notepad
My flow's bad. You must be stupid. I'm aiming at n***as
With my arrow as if my name was Cupid
I rip a fat sample and I loop it. My brother Oceana
I'll have people coming around the mountain just like Susana
I am a not a gamma ray, but I don't be a gam or gay
But I switch up my style and parlay
Like my man to my right. I ignite to cypher
Spit on your face with saliva. That's how it'd be. Ayyo, I could
Just represent in the air. (*Nonsense*) I could stutter
And still make this sh** sound bu*ter—that's word to mother
These lyrics that I utter be like, “God damn. That n***a L-Fudge
Really is the man.” I expand like headbands. Ayyo, I'm like a dead man
Walking because I be talking and people want to k** me
Fulfill these dreams? You must be, um, going crazy
I leave you like a ghost like Patrick Swayze. I never cease
To amaze the crowd. Ayyo, rappers get often plowed
Less if you was a, uh, whatever you call it
But I eat rappers up like Whatchamacallits
You'll forfeit this battle. I'll slice n***as in the neck
Place ‘em in saran wrap and sell ‘em by the pound like cattle
You must skedaddle. I'll leave you and my alternate rhymes as, uh, which
Is not shadow. Trying to get through doing the doggy paddle
My raw (*Nonsense*)... I can't believe this
But, sir, I've been freaking flows since I was a fetus
I be talking crap. I originate flows straight often as
Bust raps as if I was a gun and my lyrics was a cap
I originate flows straight off the naps, which would be the head
That's how it be. I be fracturing your skull as if I was lead
Shot from a gun. I sprung as if I was a spring
I leave rappers hanging like ding-a-lings. Ayyo, I never sing
In my track. But I just get gats. Uh, that must be stupid
Because I don't, uh, represent that stuff. I knew sh** stupid
(*Nonsense*). I is going on again
Because I don't know what's going on, but word is bond
I catch more casualties and that is, uh, Vietnam. I got an iller mentality
Than that of Saddam. "Let's Git In On" just like Smif-N-Wessun
I'll start testing rappers who ain't impressing. Then I start
Penetrating through your bulletproof vest and sending messages
That be subliminal. Sheisty individual. Step up in
My direction and you gets cut off like an umbilical
Left in critical condition. These lyrics that I'm spitting
Submitting into a rhyme, has the average emcee sh**ting
Uh, so, yo. Let me just do this
Go ahead, bless that, bless that, bless that
[Verse 2: Pumpkinhead]
Over here, representing with the dread
They call me Pumpkinhead, leaving all these wack emcees dead
Ayyo, I'm fed like a FBI agent
I leave emcees running, holding their waistes
Saying that, “Pumpkinhead is never tasteless.” I got the flavor
I come through with the major like a guy in the army
Emcees can't harm me. I come through and I swarm, G
Like a bunch of bees. Emcees can't see me. I be the P-U-M-P
K-I-N-H-E-A-D, representing NYC. Emcees, you couldn't play me
If I had a CD attached to my chest
Yo, I'll come through and I'll play emcees from East to West
South to the North, emcees know I get off
When I come through, I'll leave emcees tossed. Yo, I
Uh, I be that lyricist that's not trying to hear this
Wackness. Emcees, you're slacking
I'll be coming through with the backing of the Makin'
Leaving emcees cracking and quaking and
Like a San Francisco earthquake, emcees, you shake in
Your boots. I'll come through I and I troops with the troops
And we don't do Loops. We no Fruit emcees
You'll get done real quickly and my rhymes are never sickly
I'll be rocking the green Aéropostale. I'm hostile
When I come through, leaving emcees hanging by the follicles
Yo, I'll come through with the ill, tight
Intellectual, leaving emcees. I'm infecting crews
By the minute, by the hour like Ebola
Spreading through the conditioners, your air conditioners
I'll be that mister. They call me Mr. PH
Emcees cannot relate when I debate. Yo, you deflate
I come through. Yo, my man J-Live
You should have just cut me off. Just come on, man
[Verse 3: J-Live]
They're selling me the gutter mouth, but that's not my style
bu*ter-soft, yo, I'm the type to let you do your thing
Lets you rock it for a second ‘cause I hate when heads cut my wisdom
But I still bring light like a prism
Yes, refract it in mad, mad flavors. From green
To yellow to red. Every single color up in here
Yes, you know it. Everybody, yo, doing their own thing
But I'ma still have to swing ‘cause "The Lump Lump"
Is all in my system. I just got off the tables
You will have to excuse me if I seem unable
To rhyme off the head. Nah, what the hell am I talking about?
‘Cause I'll be doing it at the same time, cutting with the rhyme
But not today because the mic is not long enough
I wonder if my rhyme is strong enough. I called your bluff
Because you know it is. Yes, indeed. My name is not
The Biz, so you won't hear no beatbox at the same time
As the rhyme because I think that's humanly impossible
I think anyone who says they can do this lots of bull
I don't know if you heard what I just said because I did not
Even hear it myself. And it's all up in my mind
So I'ma think and, in case my foul ain't refined
I'ma pa** it to the next in case I go Boogie Blind
[Verse 4: L-Fudge]
My mental radar plays part of my everyday living
You ain't part of my family ties, son. See, as I'm robbing
Giving to the needy, ruthlessly battering emcees
Practicing battling like knights in the medieval days, using as targets:
Emcees who portray n***as who paid the illegal way
Y'all like, “Who's he to say who keeps it real?” But L-Fudge reveals the truth
Your lyrics are about as flat as last year's bubblegoose
Talking that riffraff when you're sweeter than giftwrap. All your résumés, photos, and demos
Get sent back. Reciting that neck crap, I'll give n***as concussions
These n***as I'm feeding you n***as ain't appropriate for consumption
Verbally seducting, infatuating. Puncturing n***a punctuating
Punks are waiting for directions to the restroom, so resume d**h games
Flaming ga**es released from glands hidden inside my oral
Opposing emcees drop left to right from Kombat Immortal
I give abbreviations, abrasion from paragraph lacerations
I had to do with Jesus having Lazarus reawaken
Reincarnating this culture called hip hop, so stand clear
Of the closing doors. 200th Street, Manhattan's the next stop
It's a damn shame how emcees lack creativity and had to result
To brand-name bottles of champagne to get ahead of this rap game
They can't match my pedigree. Steadily staying ahead
Of these emcees. Combining words like medleys
I'm diluting the confusion, distracting n***as with illusions
So I could have enough time to come up with the proper solution to end this pollution
Major distribution, they couldn't metamorphosize me. Stick to your substitutes
I remain breaking emcees like falls from parachutes
Absolutely don't promote material things within my rendition
Of being an emcee. Check the stats. I'm in the top three
Of artists who far from choppy. Stop the money magnetism
To enroll in my cla** of rap, you gots to pay tuition. Face the realism
Going against Fudge is like a prism, experiencing racism
Claiming that you've done faced prison. n***a, your style's common like denim
Show me your gratitude for putting n***as in their place like longitude
Or latitude. Claiming you get high, but wouldn't be able to measure my altitude
Stop the attitude you're giving me. n***a, you wouldn't be able to hang
In the institute of R-A-P, you're a failure. Weight of my rhymes can impale ya
Permanently impair ya. Purposely infecting all emcees
With the disease called malaria. You ain't different
When Fudge flows, n***as stop producing like male impotence
Lyrical significance verbally magnificent
Locking n***as down like imprisonment behind my gray bars
What? Some being was in the range of my radar
[Verse 5: J-Live]
Rappers couldn't come hard with Jada Pinkett sitting
bu*t-naked in their lap. Black, who deserves a slap?
Stepping in my face with all of that pase hoopla
Hoorah. Yeah, OK. You had your say
[?]. Everything's [?]
Claiming bu*ter when it's Parkay, I Can't Believe It's Not
Blowing up the spot. What they got? Jack sh**. Attack sh**
Like that sh**'s on my wall. I label it “What Not to Get”
To remind me who's behind me
On this emcee hierarchy, where you think you'll find me?
“Keep Risin' to the Top” just like Doug E. or, better yet, the
Original outlier with the greatest residual
Brothers try to copy, so they imitate and emulate
My style is Greater than Alexander
I'm out to make the wackest rappers repent. Your style is just
A figment of no imagination. There's no exaggeration
If rap was good as s**, then they'd have to call you Grandmaster
-bation. Find another occupation
Next time your boys speak on hip hop
I'ma pull your card just for being in the conversation
Your sh** is... nah, your sh** is carnation. What in
Tarnation led you to believe there was a relation?
f** it ‘cause I don't even have the patience. It's like
Waiting on a quadriplegic for a standing ovation
‘Cause the contingencies I see from emcees is:
One minute they flow and, the next minute, they freeze
What's the matter? I thought your style was fatter than far
But, in the heat of battle, your rebu*tal's weaker than your bladder
You're better off trying to climb Jacob's Ladder
So when that gla** jaw drops on over, I'ma watch it get shattered
‘Cause all that chitchatter ain't sh** when they're fiending for a
So-called cypher and n***as be scared to set it
Regret it. You shouldn't have let it wake the demon in me
Excuse me if I'm seeming unfriendly
But I'll be quick to kick a page off the head ‘cause
n***as know I want to really pa** the mic to the knot, this dread named O
To-the-C-E-A-N because I Z-E-N. My man here
Fronting on the mic, but, yo, I like his styles
So I'm pa**ing it on, calling him out. What the hell is it about?
[Verse 6: Ocean (of Natural Resource)]
Let's take this back to the days of MC Shan and Marley Marl
And I bet not too many of y'all will last past that wack-a** [?]
It's always on your face like you some [?]
I'm sick of the party, I'm sick of the bullsh**, and that [?] naturally
Steadily, we do and let you know hip hop's not ruined
Due to the fact, not to be black, said the Boston star Bruin
Every time you got on stage, you opened bottles of malt liquor
And the sh**s that made you sicker and sicker and sick of the
Damn, n***as! Eat ‘em up. L, chill
Sit down with your money-making a**es with the pill
These hardcore sh**s go way too far—heads are pilled
And, personally, I think most of all your nonsense is no for real