Here come the jams, yo punks, guard your domes
It's the man with the mad new styles and funky poems
So strike one, strike two, strike three, you're out
Of luck, Jack, fuck that, grab your nuts and shout
(Ain't you the Masta?) Yep, I've always been
And then, I'm a stab a fucking critic with his pen
So write that, put that in your magazine and stick it
I'm wicked, just like a witch when I kick it
So break out your charts and scales and try to rate me
Give me a one, son, yep I hope you hate me
Cause I'm a keep on bringing it, I'm swinging it
Sharp like glass til your punk ass is swinging it
Riff-raff, your whole damn staff I have to cut up
I drop bombs, I'm fatter than your moms, so what up?
I come from the planet of raps on, oh yeah
Beam me up Steady, there's no skills down here
So there, you little punk sitting in your chair
Soon you're gonna know the score kids, I swear
