Beasts From The East

«The forecast: showers heavy at times with occasional thunderstorms today and a
high of 89 degrees»
The cops said to me, «yo kid»
«Partial clearing and a low of 74»
Damn! Kghhh!
Basically, kid
Word, Ren zone, wanna hit?
Queens!
This microphone I got some of this
You know how many member L.B. Tran, get motherfuckin' biz
Along your child, we got the funk Doctor Spot
Canibus and A+ from far-sized block
Yo, yo, yo, yo, Big Dog locks it down
Yo, we come through like bulls, see, 'cause niggas takin' two pulls and pass
Nigga, watch your back once you talk out your ass
I pack a .380 in my stash for protection
Family to raise, the world is acting crazed
I never thought I’d make it, it was hectic when I scrambled
On point like a knife, I’m takin' life as a gamble
Livin' in the rotten apple, yo where every core is rotten
All my niggas, rest in peace, ya see you gone but not forgotten
Now my main wifey, deaded shady chicks
Official Lost Boyz since the year of '86
And fuck these crooked niggas I could kill em with the passion
At times I feel like blastin' in Jamaican Queens fashion
You think you can fuck around, but kid you’re just thinking
It’s over when I’m sober, imagine when I’m drinking
Without blinking man, I’ll tear your crew like pages
I’ll rip you from the backyards, parks and on stages
Yo, A+ the lyrically superb one, spittin' rhymes
Off the top of the tongue to burn ya ear drums
Rockin' shit, make the opposite team call a time out
Knocking niggas three times my size out
The crowd loves me, so when I ain’t around they ask for me
I buckle up and catch wreck like a crash dummy
For the fast money, I get up in that ass money
The fact you tryna test me kinda bugs me
I leave crews fed up, like handicap niggas tryna get up
Emcees get wet up with lyrical gun pellets
I blow up the spot when it’s time to rock
I speak out my voice box and peak out at a hundred watts
Who wanna cipher? I get dumb
Word to my mother, the father, the holy ghost, and Rev Run
When it’s all said and done, I end the service
Concoctin' the type of verses average MC’s seem to worship
Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, Big Dog! Turn the track off!
Fuck how you feel
Yo fake MC’s, step to the rear!
Fuck how the lyrical skills get
Yo real MC’s, bring this shit up north!
My style is Milk of Magnesia, clutch the five speed and bust
The more the merrier, secure the area
My La Familia is ultimate superior
We don’t jack cars, we jack for aircraft carriers
I bounce like trampolines when I be blowing the fiends to pieces
Hem 'em like sewing machines and Jesus
When the shadows of the barrel pointing out my boy Camaro
I get punished like Pharaoh for splittin'
You’re better off singin' Christmas carols for Christmas
Because I’m on point like bow and arrow equipment
The president of chicken head conventions
I give you a deluxe Ku Klux lynchin'
I got a headache from the stress, success, not wearing a vest
5−11 for being dirty and court’s at 9:30
Yo, Mr. Cheeks, I made this bitch call police
She tried swallowing a nine piece, forgot the warranty on false teeth
I return like Makaveli on 18 inch Pirelli’s
Assault and battery like my palms is Eveready
Sharp as machete’s, matter of fact I slap for cognac, can the beef heavy
Canibus brings the sickest drama, fierce enough to pierce the thickest armor
I smack bitches who try to suck dick through a condom
Playing with the mic is something I won’t do
My only concern when I approach you is to roast you
I smoke you and whoever you standing close to
And make every man in your crew deny that he knows you
Defeating niggas like Seagal Steven
Putting MCs in positions to prevent 'em from breathing
I’ll make you question any and everything you’ve ever believed in
By peeping your deepest secrets like psychic readers
What’s the matter with y’all?
I splatter y’all against the motherfucking wall with these raw lyrics I catapult
None of y’all got the balls big enough to battle
I go «On and On» like Erykah Badu
A hundred times nicer than the best is
Twice as arrogant as KRS is, who wanna test this?
Fuck y’all, you don’t impress me and no one can test me
An MC so ill, I got AIDS scared to catch me
All that shit you popping will stop when I put you in a headlock
And apply pressure until I crush your motherfucking noggin
I grab mics and push niggas to the left
So fast their hearts end up on the right side of their chests
My hypothesis is that nobody can see this
Lyrical genius, I got it sown like a seamstress
But if you want to battle, I’m down
If you got nine lives, I’ll take eight of them off your hands right now
Step up and get your neck cut from ear to ear
If you survive, then you can cover your scar with a beard
I’m the illest from Queens to the new Jerusalem briddicks
Anyone who ain’t feeling my shidick can suck my didick
You need to quit it, if you ain’t spittin'
More than fifty bars per minute 'cause you ain’t in lyrical fitness
Kicking boring raps with metaphors that’s wack
All of y’all motherfuckers need NordicTrack
To get ya weight up, fuckin' with Canibus you get ate up
Get beat down and sprayed up, just for bringing my name up
Been rocking longer than niggas twice my age
Back in the days before Bob Marley was rockin' a fade
Before Honest Abe signed the paper that freed slaves
Before Neanderthals was drawing on walls in caves
I existed, in the garden of Eden gettin' lifted
Sticking dick to Eve before she was Adam’s mistress
Before Christ created Christmas, I been in lyrical fitness
The Canibus is spitting till he’s spitless
Fifty bars of total sickness, you won’t forget this
I’m putting every wack Emcee alive on my shit list
Verbally vicious, telekinetically gifted
Took you a minute to exhibit that I’m sick wit it
Now you tell me who you think is damaging shit
Going once, going twice, sold to that nigga named Canibus
Me and Mr. Cheeks, A+, and Funk Doctor
Hopping out the Huey copter to suey chop ya
Group Home and Def Squad
Nine-Seven, nigga