"So many wack M.C.’s
You get the T.V. bozack
Ain’t even gonna call out your names
‘Cause you’re so wack
But one big oaf whose faker than plastic
A dictionary definition of the word spastic
You should have never started something
That you couldn’t finish
‘Cause writin’ rhymes to me
Is like Popeye to spinach
I’m bad ass move your fat ass
‘Cause you’re wack son
Dancin’ around like you think you’re Janet Jackson
Thought you could walk on me
To get some ground to walk on
I’ll put the rug out under your ass
As I talk on
I’ll take you out like a sniper on a roof
Like an M.C. at the fever in the D.J. booth
With your headphones strapped
You’re rockin’ rewind pause
Tryin’ to figure out what you can do to go for yours
But like the pencil to the paper I got more to come
One after another you can all get some
So you better take your time
And meditate on your rhyme
‘Cause your shit’ll be stinking
When I go for mine
And that’s right y’all don’t get uptight y’all
You can’t say shit
Because you’re biting what I write y’all
And that’s wrong y’all over the long haul
You can’t cut the mustard
When you’re fronting it all"