Ho-psh, ho-psh-psh
♬
Listen up, everybody, the bottom line
I’m a black intellect, but unrefined
With precision like a bullet, target-bound
Just livin’ like a hooker, the harlot sounds
Now when I say the harlot, you know I mean the hot
Heat of the equator, the broth that’s in the pot
Jalick, Jalick, ya wind up ya hip
Draftin’ of the poets, I’m the number seven pick
Licks, licks, licks, boy, pon your backside
Licks, licks, licks, boy, pon your backside
Listen to the fader, Shaheed lets it glide
Tip the earthly body, Heaven’s on my side
Even in Santo Domingo when I got a gringo
We got mics, when do we go?
Know a little nigga who can rhyme when you ask me
Short, dark, and plus his voice is raspy (Phife)
One for the treble, two for the bass
You know the style, Tip, it’s time to flip this
I like my beats hard like two day old shit
Steady eatin’ booty MCs like cheese grits
My man, Al B, sure, he’s in effect mode
Used to have a crush on Dawn from En Vogue
It’s not like honey dip would wanna get with me
But just in case, I own more condoms than TLC
Now the formula is this, me, Tip, and Ali
For those who can’t count, it goes 1-2-3
The anti— (Damn, right I’m s—) big up is who I be
Brothers find this hard to do, but never me
Some brothers try to diss, but Malik, you see ‘em bitchin’?
Me nah care ‘bout dem dibby MC, my shit is hittin’
Trini gladiator, anti-hesitator
Shaheed push the fader from here to Grenada
Mr. Energetic, who me sound pathetic?
When’s the last time you heard a funky diabetic?
I don’t know, man, I don’t know, man
I don’t know, man
I don’t know, I don’t know
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Complementary are we, the three for poetry
I got a humdinger comin’ hook, line and sinker
The Timbo hoofs with the prints on the ground
Timbo’s on the toes, I like the way it’s goin’ down
Down like a lady of the evening
When it goes in, toots, just believe it’s in
‘Cause Queens is the county, Jamaica is the place (What?)
Take off your cleats, ‘cause you can’t run the race
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
Oh, my God, yes, oh, my God
The title, “MC,” means “Master of Ceremony”
Some people who emcee don’t know what this term means
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