(Uzi uzi uzi uzi, grab my gun, gonna kill ol’ Suzy)
No one’s around to hear when tress fall in the forest
But it makes a sound, go ask The Lorax
Some are scared to believe, so they simply ignore us
That’s why we’re non-existent to thee musical tourist
Truth is feared, sure as thee surest
SYLLOGISM – we’re shouting notes of thee purest
LYRICISM – though no Borders adores us
We’ll produce from these woods more beauty than a florist
Fiends steer clear, we’ll reveal how they’re porous
Do ‘em like Norris, +chuck+ suckas before us
Cos those who abhor us are image distorters
They’re monsters like +Boris+, following orders
Intelligence shortage, goats ‘n’ sheep sorted
Yer bargain bin, I’m Lithuanian imported
Ain’t worth two quarters, yr fans feel shorted
How long can you last? Yr genre is sordid
But whence comes thee funeral, I’m smiles not morbid
Another idea, you never explored it
No Sunlite’s mind’s raging like bulls that just snorted
No +matador+ can face this fierce Taurus
They’ll floor ya! +The horror! The horror!+
Handle them like +Frederic+, no Halleluiah Chorus

Don’t pack gats, but our style’s still coarse
Rap till we’re hoarse, make you sound worse
Not JVC, but we still got +Force+
+Cooke+ soul like +Sam+ in code like +Morse+
- . . . . .. - . - - -
Legendary like Norse, my style dwarfs yrs
Beavers fell asleep & they lost to thee tortoise
Lose track of sources, you write puny verses
Battle with me ‘n’ yer begging for mercies
A bow ‘n’ a curtsy, you wish yer where we be
This time it’s a freebie but next time you pay me
To witness a style that’s OOP
Like Cool C, King T, or Superlover Cee
Not OPP, it’s not our nature to be body
More than to make a sound, it’ll move yr body
Yr workmanship’s shoddy, yr fanbase is rotting
We’re galloping ahead while yer still trotting

[J-Bandana]: Medians come gather in, watch thee real music begin
Lo-fi, No-fi, Dungeon, sweeter than Sellout-FM
Bringing back innocent times, where MCs were judged by their rhymes
Fresh samples & new drum lines
We’re leading thee way, but looking behind
We don’t kick anything weak, thee sound we seek is more than unique
No clichés, gangster poses, never putting anything up our noses
No killing or smoking or getting boozy
{That doesn’t fit like John Hurt with an uzi!}

Silence is golden, but old noises turn platinum
Suckers that are sold them, I’m constantly doubting them
Why you wanna listen to what everyone’s touting?
Like that ‘n’ uh, here’s the lyrical bout & like this ‘n’ uh
Get yr linguistic pounding
Eliminate thee weak ‘n’ dispose of thee rest
My guess is that our worst is yr best