Bits & Pieces

What's the major malfunction?
Got the whole rhyme under construction
Built brick to brick, my style of rhyme sick
Ras' be the quick to smack yo' ass fast
Teamed with Evidence, he's here
My man is classic material
Solefather the Grand Imperial
You and your crew need the
Milk plus the cereal
Break out the bowl, the shit's outta control
Brothas on patrol
They checkin' what ya stole
The whole, world is, looking amazed
Smack you so hard you'll be laid up for days
Taking X rays for broken backs and bones
While I be on the phone
And counting stacks at home
Spittin' rhymes chrome
Make 'em shine and glisten
Coming up missing, better give mines a listen
Brothas still wishin', better call the cops
And brothas still waitin' for
The joint to drop
Well, here it is, right in your face
The first taste swingin' for the fence
You chillin' at first base
The only nigga up in the
Place with rhyme flows
To attract chickenheads and pullin'
These fine hoes whenever wind blows
I'm bringin' it top notch
And more hard to swallow than
Marriage in hot scotch show me what you got
You claimin' that shit's hot
Well, I claim it's not
I came to knock snot out your nose
Knock you back 36 rows
The first-year rookie that be
Killin' the pros
Bring the contract, explode on contact
You chillin' on the bench
Like Nevin and Koncak
Hand to hand, combat's what it is
And brothas still screamin', "Ras'
Kick it for the kids"
Well, that's cool, spent 12 years in school
Got no diploma, now you chillin' by the pool
That even yours, I seen it all before
Sold a million records
Now selling door to door
Polyester suit's and tryna grab recruit's
What happened to them days of
Women and mad loot? All up in flames
I'm tired of playing these games
Three thousand niggas that all sound the same
Blow a nigga's frame and
Send him the snapshots
Play a little hockey then
Hit 'em with slapshots
The one time trigger effect is now done
The last man standing and
Hittin' the stretch run spittin' bubble gum
I'm spittin' the hard shit
The infrared scope and hittin' the target
Bulls-eye, give me my points for phat joints
At 33 a game, I put 'em all to shame
Who you gonna blame when
Your shit don't sell?
I play the postman for stackin' the most mail
Hot up on they trail
I track 'em like white folks
Grab 'em by they neck and
Spin 'em like bike spokes
No need to smoke, I need my brain cells
The brotha that's been know for
Slicing the frame well now what
("Rasco")