[Intro: Psycho Les]
Yeah, ha, drop it on ‘em, drop it on ‘em

(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)
(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)
(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)
(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

[Verse 1: Psycho Les]
I’ma hit you up with an exclusive
Beatnut joint got you froze like gunpoint
Bitch n***as getting drowsy
Droppin’ to their knees like prosties, shout to my Queens posse
From Northern Boulevard, straight up Junction
My system got the beat in full function
To the max, doing 90, relaxed
Down Roosevelt, Heineken between the laps
But dead that issue, time rip you like tissue
And fold you up, and wipe my ass with you
Good, make sure you understand—understood?
(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

[Verse 2: Gab Gacha]
I hustle, bang, and jargon, through your jungle at a bargain
I’m hydro sparkin’, jugglin’ babies down like Barnum
You clownin’, claim the grip of flow so tight
I humble pros who go thinking it can’t happen tonight
What better time than now? Make you a distant memory
My pedigree specialize in cheddar cheese
I forever beez the architect, constantly to build my conglomerate
Construction with bricks to get us cribs and apartments
The parliament drugadelic, the flashlight
One nation under grooves on this Beatnut flight
So get the funk right, you’s the skunk type
Who spark greens? I like Cambodian, grown by the Vietnamese
While getting blown by a Philippine queen who strip tease
And see if n***as bleed like the final Godfather scenes
Now the faculties throughout the world’ll know
Watch us take notice, Chief General Gab Gacha
[Chorus]
(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)
(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)
(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)
(“Get on the mic and bless the M.I.C., yo”)

[Verse 3: JuJu]
Tie ‘em up quick, light ‘em up quick, get the ends, yo
I never had too many friends, money mends
Keep a low key, you gotta have the stash remotely
Away from the family and coke or get smoked
Provoke me, I never let the chocolate choke me
I know what it mean to be broke, B—you joking me?
That shit is over like those leather front pullovers
Them Gucci hats and them hot rod Chevy Novas
Give me a chauffeur, a 20-foot leather sofa
Let me chill, I feel the feds getting closer
The toaster, right on the hip where it’s supposed to
Be, ‘til I D-I-E-, la cosa nostra
What, n***a
N***a, what; n***a, what; n***a, what
N***a, what; n***a, what; n***a, what