| Yo Big |
| (Check me out right here yo) |
| Yo Big Big, tell 'em turn it up! |
| Turn it up! |
| (You need to turn the track up a little bit for me) |
| Turn it up! |
| (All up in my ears, the mic is loud but the music ain’t loud) |
| Yo… this ain’t about battlin, this ain’t about beef no more |
| (Yeah) We stickin to the music |
| (Yeah!) You had a couple, a couple of altercations |
| A couple of cats knocked you down — you gon' stay down? |
| You gon' get up? |
| Show me that lyrical fitness you was talkin 'bout |
| (Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh) |
| Aiyyo the sun don’t shine forever, but I could rhyme forever |
| I’m a Ripper, this is personal nigga |
| I’m back — so charged, I don’t know how to act |
| The face lifter, Kay Slay, Money Mark and Shaq |
| In the Commission, I ain’t got to ask for shit |
| I’m D’s Capo, B.I.G. from the Bricks |
| You heard of me, seven one, three-fitty |
| Real black and shitty, wife real pretty |
| Shaq Dizzy, I take what you won’t give me |
| I bust off a couple, bitch let 'em hold fifty |
| MC’s is comical, Sasquatch phenomenal |
| IV’s plug in your arm inside the hospital |
| Never gotta spit, I make more than Mike |
| Anyone — Jordan, Jackson, Tyson |
| Ac-shun Diesel, ridiculous |
| Big Shaq, Kay Slay, 'Bis back to bust |
| Can-I-bust verbal to burst you |
| Raw shit, forklift the high hats in the side to let my verse through |
| I’m so high in the clouds I gotta aim down |
| Lyrically I’m six foot one from the waist down |
| Lay down or taste rounds from the trey pound |
| Kiss the ground as you lay face down |
| Ghetto life is a death sentence |
| Born in the hood, end up dead slumped over a car engine |
| I am Shogun, loved by no one |
| My props stop when the show’s done, how come? |
| These uncreative ungrateful scum |
| Been where I been, but can’t understand where I’m from |
| Let me show you how the fire work over here son |
| You gon' wear that watch, you might as well wear a gun |
| When you come around real gangsters, you don’t front |
| Unless life is a luxury that you don’t want |
| The long gat, the stocking cap, serious |
| As a heart attack like Redd Foxx puttin on the act |
| Couple more reps, let the muscles flex |
| Damn you gettin big 'Bis, they don’t love you yet? |
| I’m as smooth as smooth can get |
| I shake your hand to bruise your neck to improve your breath |
| Hang with rappers, actors and descendant masters |
| Puffin on hash and defendin the classics |
| I got hip-hop in my blood, I’m blessed |
| Outside the bones but inside the flesh |
| They better film this shit, cause I’m 'bout to blaze you |
| And get it on tape too, I’m 'bout to Kay Slay you |
| Somebody gon' grab you, try to escape |
| Hold you down while I perform capouetta on your face |
| Why you sound like that? Why you tear the mic down like that? |
| Why you sound so intense when you rap? |
| The airborne assault you can’t call off, breathe exhaust |
| Like a horse or a supercharged Mustang Ford |
| Good God niggas is weak, I got real power |
| Y’all rap for minutes, I rap for hours |
| Now I only got a couple more bars to pounce ya |
| Over the counter drugs, Canibus all in ya mouth son |
| I wish this was a battle, I’d grab the mic |
| And do curls and destroy you in front of the world |
| Besides Corey Gunz, ain’t shit hot since I been gone |
| Maybe it’s because you puff the same shit I bent on |
| Kay Slay, 2004 nigga, the Ripper. |
| Mic Club, get the picture? |
| Mic Club, get the picture? |