Mic check, mic check

Like a Nexus 6 comin' home to roost

Handheld 58 when it's time to get loose

Don't need the ear goggles, just put me through the speakers

Like a scientist with tubes and beakers

Have MCs over my house and fix'em brunch

But you rappers? We goin' out, goin' dutch

So pass me the sword, I'll start swingin'

Just randomly chopping on a crazy ass mission

Because I'm back with a bang boogie, oogie oogie

Strawberry letter 23 like Shuggie

Oh, my God, just look at me

Grandpa been rappin' since '83

Oh, I'm supersonic like J.J. Fad

Got crazy ass shit pullin' out the bag

Don't forget the tartar sauce, yo, 'cause it's sad

All these crap rappers, they're rappin' like crabs

I have carte blanche, the vagabond

Nas is the narcissist, my pockets are rotund

I'm no killa, but compared to you, I'm more real'a

You ain't a shot, a mobster, or a drug dealer

A slug peeler, you're not, mafioso, no

You ain't got the cutthroat in ya, beginner

I ain't tryin' to hear your racket

You work with police dog, you snitch, you rat, you wear that jacket

How many rappers must get dissed

Gimme eight bars, and watch me bless this

I start to reminisce, oh, when I miss

The real hip hop with which I persist

Like rum in mojitos, bullets and banditos

Matzoh balls in soup, jackets and troop

Yes, y'all, this is one for the history books

Nasty Nas, what's the word, count it off on the hook

Let's go! One, one, two, two, three, three

'Cause this the type of lyric goes inside your brain

To blow you bullshit rappers straight out the frame

My lyrics spin round like a hurricane twister

So get your hologram on off of Wolf Blitzer

Too many rappers to shake a stick at

I outta charge a tax for every weak rap

I had to listen to 'cause we be makin' stacks

Like Stax Records, my squad we gotta pack, we never coming whack

To all you crab rappers and hackers

And Circuit Fenders, two-tone splendor

I take the cake, I stole the mold

The golden microphone, well that's mine to hold

And why all these biters all up in my crotch space?

Sniffin', puffin', huffin', and mean muggin' with a Blimpie Bluffin

Back up off me, sucka, you ain't sayin' nothin'

I'm broader than Broadway, I was in project hallways

Dual tape recorder, lacin' oratorials all day

I'm just getting started on this beat, this is foreplay

And when this song finished, y'all can sing along with this

By the way, I have a strong fetish for Christian Louboutin steppers

I hear Russian blonde's the wettest

But anyway, I better pay homage to my fellas

And that's what's on my mind and the rhyme, who's next up?

Mike D, the man of mystery

History in the makin', and now we're takin'

Titles, awards, and accolades

Scarin' the competition as I sharpen my blades

We come together like peanut butter and sandwiches

Like pen and paper, like Picasso and canvases

Rockin' stadiums and shitty bars

Go back in time, send a fax from my car

That was dope!