Sh. Fe. Mc's - De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest

No need for, introductions, cause I know you know my name and

Knocking MC’s out the frame and, putting them suckers to shame and

I live for hip-hop, so I have no time for fun and games and

So just come and peep the unique styles that we’re displaying

The beat’s just ridiculous, the lyrics articulate

Feels good, as if a girl had just touched her clitoris

Sucker MC’s, I’m killing 'em, I’m so sick of seeing 'em

Silly (shit) when they rhyme, like that red rugby shirt worn by Gilligan

Plus the hat, they (shit) is wack

When you see me coming take ten steps back

I make usage of the pronouns, adjectives, verbs

My granny says «You always had a way with words»

And that’s because my word is bond, lyrics are laws

Sucker MC’s look at me like a friggin' eye sore

Here comes a brother hipping others on the style they lack

I’ve always rhymed abstract

I even know the brother named Abstract

I am the earner of the soul and mind

Forget the physical cause the physical will die with time

I’m shaped to vibrate indefinite proportions

Of the kids who need the fix (Just listen to the mix)

I got the knowledge constant non-stop for the rubbishing

Like (niggas) using Clinton loops as if they owned the publishing

Gums be bleeding from illegal feeding on my verb

I bring the Mardi Gras to your face

I outwit vipers in my rhyme cipher

I can easily lick them cause they’re victims of the subconscious race

Tossing periods in front of foes reps

It’s not the 187 when the 360 slept

You swallow the cake from the plate of elevate

Or you might get sparked by the crew who got the weight

So resuscitating rap like the hicks do with Presley

Is the kid who peeled the jeans in Orleans off of Leslie

Sh.

Fe.

MC number nine, if you let me rhyme nine times infinitely I will climb

I let my Walkman from Sony play cassettes from Rabboni

Which guarantees to put me on the narrow road

Ayo, that’s it from me, Plug 3, and Ali explode!

When I rhyme, the effect just ripples

You sound sick, I hope your cells get sickles

And formulate into real stiff (shit)

Then I bet that (niggas) cut the chit chit

Cause the Ab will, be sharper than a Ginsu

Cutter or your bum (ass) head for the gutter

This is not a game and we ain’t looking for the fame

That’s not the aim, we came to rip the jam out the frame

My inter-reaction with paper is amazing

So needless to say mad trails are left blazing

A whole lot of bull (shit) rhymes start to get play

But I’m here to say that real rhymes do pay

I’m the type of brother that writes until my knuckles get nary

And through the domepiece, the rhymes will carry

Then transported to my throat then the quotes hit the air

As I stand dipped with the wares

Rhymes get slot times, move back from the jack

It’s the verbal constructor, some MC’s is wack

I make a girl do the bogle, doo doo brown and all

Make (niggas) jump up, drink Dom, and have a ball

I animate the unlively with the verbal combat

The Abstract, never the wack

Motivator of the many like Moses

Moving through, bringing danger to the dummies that poses

That means you, the sub relator of the sub culture

Wack (nigga) vulture, I swoop down on crowns

Cause confusion all around

Mental burdens I bring to MC’s who sing, they sad songs

Money, your dough’s not long

Mines on the other hand is lengthy type

The Abstract gets real, real, real…

Real down to Earth I hit the Long Island Rail

You never see me tango with the horn and the tail

I got the kit for your mind I design it like Zender

Smoking mad hope from my neighbors, and da

50/50 luck takes the «S» off my chest

Cause the «S» on my chest makes a mess

Settling for Superman, stupid man, put on your glasses

Now your asses be slow gassin' like molasses

Continue the menu, next on the platter

Hey where that (bitch) at?

(He's right here boy!)

I gotsta see what I got and who I’m getting it with

This ain’t no nickel dime game that I’m peddling with

Mikey Roads said «Stop riding, it be dividing

Taking me out how I be vibing»

(Niggas) actin' hard like gristle

But my pops got the pistol

Told me if I ever need it just *whistle*

Respects to Griff Dog for the razor

Much respects to Joe Buck for the favor

It’s about a million brothers trying to be MC’s in this world

I’m glad I got a baby girl