Chinese Super Ninjas - Eff Yoo, G.S. Advance, Spit Gemz

Taking alcohol straight to the face since Strydex

I still fucks with gold caps, triple beams and Pyrex

Protein for muscle definition in my biceps

Days when a quarter got you 5 minutes on Nynex

And you could do math equations on the face of your Timex

Aight bet

We get it Eff, you a 90's head

'85, five of us sleep on a tiny bed

Tryna to get by, my uncle tryna get high

Stealing from my moms check

Left her holding 90 cents

I wrote this whole verse in a dark room, with shiny pens

Tryna develop thoughts, paint a picture for grimey heads

ESP, I’ll pull your card through meditation

I’m a master of illusions and prestidigitation

3 card Molly, digit manipulation, all inside your mami

She beggin for the dictation

I park my giant spaceship, in her Rego Park basement

My ego large, I repo hearts on daily basis

With many faces, this shit never changes

Inscribed this rhyme on a pamphlet/Eff Yoo without the lamb skin /fucker

(Verse 2: G.S. Advance)

About a thousand times more so, eat every morsel

They cry for more souls

My quality spawns pure gold, might speak in Morse code

Fly encryptions, time hidden inside of my inscriptions

The wisest see, take everything plus a side of fixins'

Vancini the Great, the most atrocious

Climb walls, she hooked.

Rock ninja shoes with the toes split

On purpose, might let one barely live

The old folks told legends of me to scare the kids

Shallow for the breed, shadow in the breeze

Shower with debris.

Child get the brie

'Till fly estates, grape vines behind some iron gates

Still trying to find how I escaped, son defied a trace

Enjoy a plate of dinner, destroy and make it better

My life should be illustrated by Frank Frazetta

G.S. Advance, a mission from a different year

Appear from no where, kill everyone quick, and disappear

(Verse 3: Skanks the Rap Martyr)

Yo Eff, Yo, my ninja Von told me a long time ago

That niggas gon' tell on your bodie, just kill 'em with the flow

I been a pro, the lyrical malesting is taking place

You kids ain’t safe, whatever i see i take, like Miz and Rafe

But this ain’t fake, this is real life

Not just a rap song

The reason why that nosy ass bitch ain’t gon' live that long

A snitch could get her crack on, ain’t a person she won’t rat on

Bitch mouth so big, you could put your head in it with a hat on

I never begged for mercy or payed my attorney

'cause i never served time, i always made my time serve me

See it all in your face how you be wantin' to hate

Is it because you old too soon, or young too late?

Oh, i get it

You think i think my shit must not stink?

Well i hit the sink and wash my hands before i touch my dick

You listening, boppin' with that sick look on your grill

Like you smell some stank box Massengil couldn’t kill

Nigga i’m ill

(Verse 4: Spit Gemz)

I stole a horse, rode it off a cliff, then i slept in it

I’m on my shit, if you can hear, you just stepped in it

Hawk your son, toss your corpse, you ain’t deadin' shit

That’s that for the Glass that won’t shatter

On my life-proof death machine

The hue’s (Hugh) like a beautiful red thing

It’s crucial what i do when i says things

Bare (bear) with me, the air’s with me when i speak

They tend to cater to cadence, i rather just let it breathe

My P’s got a disease

Options for a teen, boxed in amongst the fiends

Ain’t abundant and it seems

Nobody sees

We’re boxing toxins in our genes

From before we took our first gulp of oxygen, i mean

I know i tend to drift though

When i let the gift go

My kid’s growing, if i don’t say nothing

Who will Bro?

I still kick flows for the love of it

I love the shit!

Which means, i still do free shows for the public

A verse’ll cost you if it means something to you

I’ll do it for nothing if i see something in you.

Eff can say he’s dropping an album with one verse on it

And the rest is me, i’m getting right to work on it

As long as the drums are hard and the instruments are haunted

This Broken Home shit, is way beyond these rap groups

My Pops used to kick it with Dondi, you talking «rap roots»

Clap who?

You rap ratchets, that’s ill talk

But i’m the product of a roscoe like IllYork

A son of a gun, i son 'em for fun

I plan on counting bread 'till MZRE got blisters on his thumbs

Until my seed has her own art school that she runs

My last request: turn my ashes to vinyl and get it spun

In the club that you’re in, when you celebrate the win

Until then, all i ask is that you elevate your pen

Gemz