Gang Starr: Make em pay

[Guru] First and foremost, some rappers are sweet like fructose When I cock back these lyrics, y'all punks best be ghost I be the seven twenty-one, eighteen twenty-one The illest one, I'm almost doper than anyone Straight out the late nights of Bed-Stuy Steppin up, y'all put your weapons up, I make heads fly You're artificial like saccarhin You're crazy fake, it's more than skills you be lackin in Concepts you bite, cause your identity ain't tight Tryin to be somethin you're not, like pullin a knife at a gunfight I'm troopin on night air like flight number 106 and gettin all up in your fuckin mix You get me upset, and I got you uptight cause my committee's in your city tonight, AIGHT? We got seventeen million of us plus, two million Indians That makes 19 mil, lightin shit up like Wild Bill I be the, supreme father plus the ill kid with drama My karma, creates the teflon to pierce your body armor And make sure you check the shit before you walk to me, or talk to me Steppin to me improperly, you just may catch the weaponry My specialty is tearin tracks out the frame You know my fuckin name, I rule all game I'm universal on all planes, what's your claim? [Guru] Yo, I be your highness, in slickness, you chumps bear witness Tremendous tropper, verbal nigga witht he fitness Drop you for your spot with the blazer then I blast ya Slice precise like ?fenny hanas? when I come to bring the dramas Styles so swift, that you can't peep the God as your lyrics get buried, six feet deep in my backyard I laugh hard, while your mental I run through mazes Dark stages of terror to shatter your dressing room mirror Your whole error gets crushed, your whole show gets bumrushed Too many dumb punks, want to enter this rap scene Kickin Willie Bobo, but need to be slapped clean into oblivion, the true champion always rises I bring surprises to the chief plus their advisers Size me up, and you will find nothing's larger Catch more wreck on your dome, than a deranged fuckin barber So what you made some dough, you best keep on scramblin All your vanity, is instantly crushed, when I start handlin Demandin that you pay, for your weak rhyme display Coast to coast, I break the fakes everyday [Krumb Snatcha] I see myself as the black Rap Messiah Colossal spreadin my gospel through electrical wires Spit fire through speech, so I can reach each and every Tom Dick and Jerry slippin like petroleum jelly Too busy in the limelight, can't rhyme tight I got divine right to bring y'all to light Somethin ain't right, to be an MC, you gotta thug Or to thug you gotta be an MC, this shit is bugged Show love but few; deal with crew and crew only And think universal like Sony Phony pounds and fake hugs is usually avoided Give a fuck like Pizza Hut I got to stay Noyd-ed Cause that same nigga you trust, could be that same cat behind that gat that bust, quiet ya, with the silencer Keep it hush, ashes to dust, then dust to ashes Nowadays it's who pull out the fastest, imagine this rap shit without this gat shit, or the phony cat in black talkin bout how much his Mac spit But this year, GangStarr got changes bein made No wack shit bein played no fake macks gettin paid No Versace MC's, with a mouth full of Mo' Soundin like a hoe spittin that old-fashioned show flow I bombshell that pastel Chanel rap through a Maxwell Ever since young Krumb, was taught to rap well Goin deep, process of thought, when my eyes closes Awaken with interpretive robe and sandals like Moses Travellin high sands and Eastern lands for the answers Ignorance is spreadin through the streets like it was cancer Too many drinkin not thinkin, when behind that trigger A 38 escalate the murder rate, for us niggaz it's like, microphone roulette cause nowadays MC's is gettin wet over someone else's fake gangsta rep