[Verse 1: Craig G]
Clear the aisle, here comes another new syle
By the brothers who file under "dope" (dope?)
Craig and Trag (uh huh), we comin' back at 'cha
With a new batch of rhymes that get better by the chapter
And they mean a whole lot
When speakin' upon the rhymes that we droppin'
When we drop 'em
You'll witness creativity to the fullest
Chartin' with clips, not bullets
My name has been inflicted in the hip hop legend
And believe me, as I get older we're gonna get better (mm hmm)
Now tell it to your offsprings
So they can follow through, just like it was a golf swing
Craig G is here to rocket it
Back on the map like a spot on the continent (here we go)
Killin' off all the false prophets
You took the rap industry and tried to hold it hostage (give it up)
So forget the shackles this ain't Roots
Just pass me a pair of Timberland boots
So I can kick a mud hole dead in your chest (damn)
Then I say calmly, "'Ey, who's the best?"
Cause I get respect off of dope mic checks
Rappers with wreck, they don't come next
To the Trag (yeah), If you're all in it (uh huh)
Grab the mic and get busy for a minute
[Verse 2: Tragedy]
The style is locked in your brain and you can't think
But when you try to bite, your pen runs outta ink
This ain't on a pop tip to sell out or sell on
You thought I fell off but Tragedy fell on
Mics I'm grabbin' it, rippin' and stabbin' it
The T the R the A the G, you see I ain't havin' it
Emcees are soft like cotton candy
But my rap is stronger than your poppa's brandy
Renegade rebel with a style that's well-put
Gettin' funky just like an athlete's foot
So don't put your feet in my shoes, you can't fit 'em
I kill mics, and MCs that come wit' 'em
However, to dis you, is not the main issue
Cause I can take a shit and use your raps for my tissue
Like use your record cover just to pick up my trash
Like a wicked stepfather, I be whippin' that ass
You don't want to go the length cause your lyrics won't last
I don't smoke cracks but I do break backs
And I smoke mics off of Marley Marl's tracks
Cause out of the House of Hits is where the funk flows
And he's a hitman, killing you real slow
So Craig G, you're on my side?
Get on the mic and let the syllables slide

Authentic (Authentic?)
That's the way I present it
[Verse 3: Craig G]
Sometimes it's funky and sometimes it's demented
Rapper's runnin' up to me handin' me feedback
Slow down kid before you enter a speed trap
Wit' your neck snap, so accept that
So won't ya calmly give the devil his check back
Take your soul but your title (up it yo??)
And bring your whack ass rhymes to the muppet show
See I don't give a fuck how much swing you got
And see how high ya album climbs on the charts
Your still a dead rapper from Christmas past
So won't you pucker up and kiss this ass
Cause I'm in there, even on leap year
I make it for the others with this fly ass beat
Yeah and you-- you make a drastic drop
You couldn't stop me if you were a traffic cop (that's right)
That just reminds me of my radio days
When I would take a mic and leave rappers amazed (word?)
No matter how large with the gold and platinum
I take a microphone and beat the shit right after
And after I was finished they'd say "Craig G scored"
And that's the way I usually would rock New York
So yo Trag (yo!), you know you're pumpin' and potent (all righty)
Get on the mic and rip the shit wide open

[Verse 4: Tragedy]
Now ya caught within my mental mazes
I'm equipped so it's easy to flip phrases
Can't compare my books to your pages
Roll over bacon, it's time for Sizzlean
Pass the mic and I chop it like a guillotine
Smoother than Barry White-- when I take flight
Twenty MCs against me is a fair fight
Use my mind and I flow just like fluid
Sound waves and walls and I walk right through it
So don't play yourself, let the Trag do it
Ya slept on the freestyle, thought I couldn't wreck a track
But like a Jheri curl I snap right back
To remain as a motivated rebel
And still get ill just like a Tasmanian devil
Live and direct from the house of hits
Raps are so funky that they kick like (??)
Tell your last rhyme and breathe your last breath
Cause battlin' Trag is like playin' with death
And pickin' up a mic is like Russian Roulette
I'm aimin' the mic at the crowd like a Tech 9
You tried to get yours but now I got mine
Just like Latimer you'll be out of there
Maybe next year, too late I'm in there
Craig G, the one and only one (yeah)
We're out of here I guess our job is done