[Verse 1: Bigg Jus]
Rugged like Rwanda
Don't wander far or get chopped up
Quick to rush the spot like baby urine get mopped up
Tags that spray your hall with rap aerosol
Organized graffiti lectures in can control
Or level with the devil racing uptown first to Fort Apache
I'm much too much for any demon style to master me
From the Throgs Neck Bridge to the Hell’s Gate, lyrically detonating
Sparking M-80's and bottle rockets into n***a chaser
Downtown graffiti deface a heroin debaser
Open up your eyes ad clean out your nature
Wide open like the Grand Canyon
Emcees couldn't hang if they was lynched by the Grand Dragon
Searching for my styles like Job Corps
Coming home on work release, shoplifting at the rap store
But sabotaging me ain't easy
I'm crooked like Nathan Wind starring as Cochese
With a big baseball bat, you get robbed like DeNiro
A sandwich still ain't nothing but a hero
Just a small sample of the abstract
When the rhyme get crazy hot and lyrics don't know how to act
Whether shooting joints or wax
I’ll go all out and attack crabs and herbs that's crazy wack
We all can't be pimps and we all can't rap
You got to get your dollars on 'cause it's on like that
Here's what I want you to do: n***as with the green axe
And burgundy 4Runner, inhuman like Blade Runner
When I'm rhyming all summer, just listen to the drummer
Transistor blister, feedback freak the impedance
Funk flow, we expose frequencies in sequence
Napalm gets dropped long-range like fiber optics
Check the rhyme activity—your skills is microscopic
Peace to my crew and my n***a El-P
Who's here to spark it, causing all these crabs to flee
[Verse 2: El-P]
Check it and I inflict it. Quadra 950 lungs misty
Calling me “Maximilian” ‘cause I'm that crazy robot
Teetering on the edge of outer space
Spitting buckshots ‘til black holes surround me. You found me
As far as I'm concerned, I got your ashes in an urn
Big up the temperamental, holds-none-barred kid
What's your confunction? Tracks is type dusty
Drinking water out the well of life and I'ma piss it back rusty
Flesh in phonics. You're goddamn right
I'm on it like aorta pacemakers hooked up to clappers
Clap off. Welcome to my free-form jubilee
Look at me, the witness to the shit you wanna be
DBA, lyrical P, burners insipid
I’m a sycophant, feeding on fats passed and dipped
In and out of my invisible state. Forerunner rep tyrannical
Wrecks like TECs, bust mechanical
Rusty garden weasel painting beats on an easel
Shoot a head up. What, bitch? You're boxing shadows
Look out my way, you’ll pull the breath out your battle
Breaking your double helix and now the shit is single
Not mono. I burn the needle out your phono
El-P the third gunner on the grassy knoll, stroll
Keep the seventh seal of heaven in my pocket
You're faggot like Sprockets. Yo, motherfuck the Houston Rockets
I'm so sick of recycled metaphors
Bet, but I'd fuck Laura Ingalls only when she's done with her chores
Got rappers tip-toeing on a Highway to Heaven
Got manners like Bruce Banner when he's stressed
I'm sick of your corny beats and your crowd-involved hooks
'Cause I'm a thinker
Evil anus letting off stinkers
[Bridge: Bigg Jus & El-P]
Eight steps to perfection
The sum of each part forms a octagon
Let rhyme styles get sparked
Eight steps to perfection
The sum of each part forms a octagon
Where rhyme styles get sparked

[Verse 3: Bigg Jus]
The holy terror, last move you made was an error, won't win
Playing taps on a violin
You can never comprehend the rhyme origin
Irate when I get Chinese—Jamaican like a Chin
Hot rocking corduroy, Ballies that's so fitted
N***as came and assed out my tracks and left 'em shitted
Fuck the movement, lubricate the smooth shit
Just to let you know, never do I use it
Strictly the blueprint for the ghetto music in my cypher
Shorty the sniper, Jeep like Cherokee
When I take aim handling wall-to-wall emcees
Mr. Madman attract lyrics like magnets
That fuck up speaker cabinets when I'm stabbing it
Like the Juice, then go Bronco busting loose
That's my word. You couldn't shoot or try to compute the math
To kick any tight sport like the vandal
I manhandle. Emcees get murdered like Tenor Saw
Or trapped in the bedroom with the Texas Chainsaw
Massacre. One Two Three, The Taking of Pelham
Eastwick, underground New York be the dwelling
I keep telling ‘em the state of the mind be the mentals
If you murder up in the ghetto, you’re murdering a temple