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[Intro: Mr. Complex] Alright. Wha? Whoo. Uh, uh. Mixtape galore. Eddie Ill, D.L. Underground community is worldwide. Check me out. I go by the name of Mr. Complex. Mr. Comflex. Check, check. Yo [Verse 1: Mr. Complex] See, I could run with the Hardest of the hard. I'm the Midas in the squad I breeze with the rest of the peas in the pod I nod my knot and God forbid I stop I got spots to rock. I got shots to shoot It's like this: I should enlist in an institute Because the world is out of control. It's taking its toll As I roll on rock, rock some soul or roll Unfold the bill. Yo, still me you k** Because you ain't the ill. Just chill until. Mom, come get your Sit your a** down, smoke this foul, and smile While I take this picture, hit you or I'll split ya Fit you in before lunch. Still got a hunch that I crunched your whole bunch Your whole fraidy “good goobily goop” like Grady It's all good like all-wood furniture, have no concern with ya This don't matter with the incredible The way I express myself is federal. The way I undress myself Will get downright nasty, so cover the eyes of the children I want security posted twenty-four hours around the building I want raby Rottweilers with barb wire fences guarding my sentences I want kung fu masters with swords and staffs guarding my paragraphs So the next fool thinking about biting, I'll show him how uncool it is Uh, there it is. One time. Next to flex Who's next to flex after Mr. Complex? [Interlude 1: Don Scavone] Don Scavone, baby. Makin' Records clique keeping it thick, know'm saying? Yo, peace to all my family peoples. Word up. ‘Cause, yo [Verse 2: Don Scavone] It's the Don Dada smoking lah, f**ing marijuana I keep it higher than a Mexican playing piñata Clipping a ha**a leave me doing the Lambada Maybe the Cha-Cha to get me closer to them tatas Gomorrah operas—snitches are singing like Sinatra I got to regulate, flexing my weight New York to Gaza Don't try to see me. I'll make tú tiene que hacer pipí After you weewee, I'll bust a cap up in a three-piece Sí, no me toca. Sí, hoy doy la banda loca Vende la c**a, dame la planta y la chocha That's how I manage. Italian-born and speaking Spanish Far from the average, I'll make s**ers duck and disparage Sorbete puto, you p**y like f**ing menudo Agua sin dudo. My flow is as sweet as a Kudo And so that you know, I'm telling y'all plain as it get I'll pour the rain on your set, especially the rain of the TEC Dangerous threat, I'm shooting but ain't aiming it yet You f**ers is ducking from strays in the neck I'll blaze it direct. The mente de la lengua was standing tall Hand on my balls, telling the world, "¡Chupa mi pinga!" [Interlude 2: Don Scavone and Eddie Brock] Don Scavone: So who want to jump in this ringa? Eddie Brock: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. What, what? Don Scavone: Makin' Records Eddie Brock: Yo, yo [Bridge 1: Eddie Brock] It'd be that n***a Mr. Brock. I got the vicious plots Listen, man. Get your fam, get your block, get your Glock n***a, Mr. Brock. I got every spot Listen, man. Yo, check it out, yo [Verse 3: Eddie Brock] My automatic lungs spit poison wind—E. Brock the venomous When I'm finished, it's required to detox the premises Giving speed knots that's limitless. Your official arch nemesis Present you dark images, my pistols spark timidness And diminished hearts of menaces Converting their criminal ways to acts of innocence You know who I be—n***a, check the ID E-double-D-I-E Brock, occupation: local crimey So y'all fronting hard better be easing back. I'll load a Glock Twist your cap like a soda top and leave it flat ‘Cause you're soft drink and I'm hard liquor. You're joke posse My squad's thicker. Brock be the n***a you cannot see/can Nazi Like swastikas. I done lodged jiggas in the necks Of extra large n***as, so f** your resumé, your stats, and your figures Hard rocks get pulverized to sediments. I'll represent for self Don't need no Secret Service to guard my presidents Poetic excellence blowing spots like evidence Front and watch my regimen swarm your residence like the pestilence [Interlude 3: Eddie Brock and Pumpkinhead] Eddie Brock: What? n***a, Mr. Brock, northeast Bronx. What, what, what, yo? All beats stomp, kicking cats in the face. What up? What up? Pumpkinhead: Haha, yeah. Haha. Who's up next? Aha, I think it's What? What? Aha, yo [Verse 4: What? What? (aka Jean Grae)] I'll rock the microphone Until your brain explodes. Continuous ma** verbatim Jump in the booth and just a**a**inate ‘em Heads, I decapitate ‘em. Your spine's left dilapidated Crowd fascinated. co*k the verbal gat and spray ‘em My raps created quick with the voice fated to hit Since the grade of fifth, rebel like a slave with a whip I stopped time with just the thought of a rhyme My pen turns pads to miracles like water to wine The only crime I'll tell you that I committed is k**ing emcees I'm too cool—my hot sh** hits chilling degrees Verbal villainous sprees like the sting of some bees I'll slap the mic out your hand like you're spilling some trees You're dealing with these real n***as Makin'—don't sleep on it And keep my name out your mouth—you shouldn't speak on it Much love to friends, come see me for all the foes What? What?. Yo, Pumpkinhead, k** these n***as with flows [Verse 5: Pumpkinhead] My flow's synonymous with communists, locking it, monsterous Preposterous, PH stand tall like an obelisk The novelist marvelous, f** your head up like sparking dust Take the pain in the rain—my style don't rust Bones crush when the microphones touch the hand The foes rush the land where I stand, but can't withstand My show with Ray-Bans. You catch a suntan Brother man, that'll dry your salivary glands I got flow like Aquaman, quick to snap like rubber bands I'm your idol, highest title, numero uno I am Puerto Rican, sipping Bacardi with jugo And you know that emcees that bite like Cool Joe For the props, they get cho-ch-chopped like judo Dropping j**els, fools get played like menudo Pumpkinhead leave you dead. We collide like sumos