[Chorus - Keke Wyatt] Sit back, close your eyes Peep back, got you open wide I'll let you get a taste of me It's going down in mystery Sit back, close your eyes Peep back, got you open wide I'll let you get a taste of me It's going down in mystery
[Gift of Gab] Well it's the microphone ripper, party-rockin Gift of Gab I hit the scene, lift you on my beam And send you through my high plains Mind-train shiftin through your migraines Spit with that I hit with patterns get you twisted sideways
[Lateef the Truth Speaker] And I'm the head honcho, sport golden tonsils Inventin new styles all the time like pronto! Four by four, runnin over suckers like a Bronco Haters say the lyrics ain't Gonzo but they wrong though
[Gift of Gab] We walking up and locking up the game and sparking up the flame You're not gone' be the same when our flow reach your brain It's 'bout to bust
[Lateef the Truth Speaker] Not your crush, show up at our show in a tacky dress Sparking us, talking 'bout your prowess but we're not impressed
[Gift of Gab] Checkmate, populous crush, monstrous plush Rhymes that just thrust onto your buck buck Just rush
[Lateef the Truth Speaker] Just rushin' like the Nile River, power we deliver See it's (going down in mystery)
[Chorus x 2]
[Keke Wyatt] You know, I know, you know, I know (It's going down in mystery)
[Gift of Gab] (Lateef)
(Gift of Gab won't you learn 'em and assure 'em) (That the fire that you spit'll burn 'em) Burning up the track and turning up the action (Murder one attack him) Serving what you're rapping Urban gutter anthems (Certain of the fact) Curtains for the wack Searching for the knack (You're pervin' off the fatness) Fury of the rather early mornings after (Worldly like disasters) Purely just the baddest, the chief clamp down on 'em (Like a vice on a melon squeezing tight on your temples) Feel the bass (as the wind blows) In your face (and your mental) hear the taste Instrumentals even break down on you like this (We surpass your previous standards) drastically (Mastering bass), setting nights so bright (Beneath the skylight) And days (and weeks) and months (go by) And years (and decades) and we still so fly (While the others are just fly by night) And not tight (we keep writing) Like scribes (but we tight) and so wise (c'mon)
[Gab & Lateef Together] The rhyme historian exploring everything that we got And even more so we exploring everything that they not These are the glory days for lyricisits, forever we plot Wait wait wait wait hold on a second bring it back (we plot x 4, c'mon) The rhyme historian exploring everything that we got And even more so we exploring everything that they not These are the glory days of lyricisits, forever we plot (It's going down in mystery)
Styles like Al Pacino Reno until the carcelino The mad dino with the cambino, the gambino Digger than Jim COlisemo More reservoir dogs than Tarantino Scales for Venezuela, Brown as Ni O Making the block hotter than Jalepe OS G. Luciano Be wettin' shit like piesce in "Casino" Fifty dollar cigar seer The cosnia, the mafia Don P. like Garcia Drug Czar and the baby-Pah beater The M-8 behind the bar-freer The poughkenoughs, the panama skier Down with the parmesan Ready to comb like Vietnam with arms 'Cause the hollow-points and phenomenon The cheddar-spreader The killer with the gold Carretta N-Leader The sweater-letter with the hollow letter Drama-setter The patmeretta gettin' redder kids and mamma Shredder Infra-red clow off the armour better The godfather, the problem solver Coming through with the 6 shell revolver Hot as lava Guns skills that reel and in the 'ville I be the barber Gangster saga, the motha-fuckin' face carver
Drums of death hold your breath Give you a dose of shit that's dope as soda The underworld family cosa-nostra Pearl-handle inside the shoulder-holster G. Luciano with a click but nothin' but N-S & Chicanos You get hit up like Castrelano italiano like crime familia N- don't get familiar Me and my goons might have to kill you Up in New York We play bloodsports at home court And hold down forts Soon as ya caught, get your dome torched G Rap and Dj Shadow leave your bone squashed Squeeze the chrome short, take no shorts We judge and jury in the home court Give you the clown corpse dead on the sidewalk Surrounded by mad pedefors Your whole frame laid in the white chalk You got the smoking section First-class tickets to resurrection Forever destined to a place where N-S never rest in Headed in hell's direction Lost at the crossroads and intersection Should've wore a vest for chest protection Slug fill you to capacity, someone at the dance Someone with the hand velocity of Butch Cassidy Bitch N- with the audacity to blaspheme me Got yourself caught in a motha-fuckin' tragedy
