[Intro: Wyclef Jean]
One-two, I'm 'bout to set this off
Like this, hip-hoppers, check it!
[Chorus: Wyclef Jean]
Another MC lose his life tonight, Lord!
I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why?
Oh Lord, Father, don't let him bury me, whoa!
[Verse 1: Wyclef Jean]
I haunt MC's like Mephistopheles, bringin' swords of Damocles,
Secret service keep a close watch as if my name was Kennedy,
Abstract raps simple with a street format,
Gaze into the sky and measure planets by parallax.
Check out the retrograde motion, kill the notion
Of bitin' and recyclin' and callin' it your own creation,
I feel like Rockwell, somebody's watching me,
I got no privacy whether on land or at sea.
And for you bitin' zealots, your raps are cacophonic,
Hypocrite, critic, but deep inside you wish you had the pop hit,
It hurts, don't it? A refugee come to your turf
And take over the earth.
[Bridge: Lauryn Hill]
See, my rhymes are the type of fly rhymes
That can only get down with my crew,
And if you try to take lines or bite rhymes,
We'll show you how the refugees do.
[Verse 2: Lauryn Hill]
Yeah, yeah, behold, as my odes manifold on your rhymes,
Two MC's can't occupy the same space at the same time,
It's against the laws of physics,
So weep as your sweet dreams break up like Eurythmics.
Rap rejects, my tape deck ejects projectile,
Whether Jew or gentile, I rank top percentile,
Many styles, more powerful than gamma rays,
My grammar pays, like Carlos Santana plays «Black Magic Woman».
So while you fumin', I'm consumin' mango juice under Polaris,
You just embarrassed 'cause it's your last tango in Paris.
And even after all my logic and my theory
I add a «motherfucker» so you ig'nant niggas hear me.
Crew, remember take notes as I sow my rap oats,
And for you bitin' zealots, here's a quote.
[Chorus: Wyclef Jean]
Another MC lose his life tonight, Lord!
I beg that you pray to Jesus Christ, why?
Oh Lord, Father, don't let him bury me, whoa!
[Verse 3: Wyclef Jean]
You can try but you can't divide the tribe,
These cats can't rap, Mr. Author, I feel no vibe,
The magazine says the girl should have went solo,
The guys should stop rappin' – vanish like Menudo.
Took it to the heart, but every actor plays his part,
As long as someone was listenin', I knew it was a start
For me to get my chance, grab my pen and revamp,
Do a cameo while everybody do the dance.
Quick now, 'cause you runnin' out of luck-a,
Playin' Mr. Big, I'm gonna git you sucka,
While you munchin' at your luncheon
I'll be plannin' your assassination, then hit you like the Dutchman.
[Verse 4: Pras]
I compress sound sets with my rap dbx
Then drop vocals on my 456 Ampex,
Bring terror to the shop of horror,
As she cry, «Mi amor!» the phantom dies in the opera.
And to the youngins, who carry gadgets
And kill six days a week, then rest on the Sabbath,
Violence ain't necessary, unless you provoke me,
Then get buried like the great Mussolini.
And for you bitin' zealots, your rap styles are relics,
No matter who you damage, you're still a false prophet.