[Intro]
Yeah, you know them
They accuse the righteous people of crimes and claim that we're wicked
Stirring up controversy, making us fight each other
All the fake rappers make it worse, they gotta pay

[Verse 1: 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
Stepping up, y'all put your weapons up, I make heads fly
You're artificial like saccharin
You're crazy fake, it's more than skills you be lacking in
Concepts you bite, cause your identity ain't tight
Trying to be something you're not, like pulling a knife at a gunfight
I'm trooping on night air like flight number 106
And getting all up in your fucking 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, lighting 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
Stepping to me improperly, you just may catch the weaponry
My specialty is tearing tracks out the frame
You know my fucking name, I rule all game
I'm universal on all planes, what's your claim?
[Verse 2: Guru]
Yo, I be your highness, in slickness, you chumps bear witness
Tremendous trooper, verbal n***a with the fitness
Drop you for your spot with the blazer then I blast you
Slice precise like Benihana's 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
Kicking 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 fucking barber
So what you made some dough, you best keep on scrambling
All your vanity, is instantly crushed, when I start handling
Demanding that you pay, for your weak rhyme display
Coast to coast, I break the fakes everyday

[Verse 3: Krumb Snatcha]
I see myself as the black rap messiah
Colossal spreading 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
Something ain't right, to be an MC, you gotta thug
Or to thug you gotta be an MC, this shit is bugged
Show love to 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 noid-ed
Cause that same n***a 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 talking bout how much his mac spit
But this year, Gang Starr got changes being made
No wack shit being played no fake macks getting paid
No Versace mc's, with a mouth full of mo'
Soundin' like a ho spittin' at a fashion show flow
I bombshell that pastel Chanel rap through a maxwell
Ever since young Krumb, was taught to rap well
Going deep, process of thought, when my eyes closes
Awaken with turban, robe and sandals like Moses
Travelling high sands and eastern lands for the answers
Ignorance is spreading through the streets like it was cancer
Too many drinking not thinking, when behind that trigger
A .38 escalate the murder rate, for us n***as
It's like, microphone roulette cause nowadays MCs is getting wet
Over someone else's fake gangsta rep