The Big East-Masta Ace Incorporated

The Big East - Masta Ace Incorporated Awwww....yeaaaah... Who is the man with the hats with the snaps, Droppin the raps with the truth, to the youth thats bustin the caps? Who could it be? is it a bird? is it a plane? is it a tree? No, its me: capital-a, capital-s, capital-e. Boomin like thunda, strikin like lightnin. Welcome to my slaughtahouse, I know its frightenin. I'm hittin em over the head with lyrical styles like a bottle. My foots on the pedal, my hand is on the throttle. I'm turbo-boostin from houston to vegas. You want us to quit, but sh*t, you can't make us. Theres too much money to make, money to get, money to earn. My pockets are on e, and I want money to burn. I got gusto, plus yo, I'm zeekin em. Rollin with l.d., ken, eyce, and neek and em. Phat tracks, I'm freakin em, word to your auntie. Its written all over your face, I know you want me. Scientifical mathematical war. Rhymes and beats harder than trigonometry 4. So open your books to page one, and Ill show you how its done, Its the roughneck kid without a gun. I'm laughin-- ha ha! -- its fun to watch you weep as You're cryin, dyin, try and figure out the jeep a** Nig-guh, bigger and better and badder than ever before, Hittin with hardcore lyrical calesthenics that make me sore. And the shower of fire, supplier of the real, Get with the program and I'm slammin like shaquille. Right on your head, do what I said, backin me up is the d: (lord digga:)you must be crazy if you wanna mess with me. Cuz I am not the one, kid. Oh no, he ain't the one, son. The shank in my sock will chop you like an onion. So boom, head for the hills, head for the freakin border. I slaughter, like great white sharks, I'm makin sparks. Refrain: 4x Comin from the big east, boy, we ain't slippin. (don't you know? ) don't even think about it, yeah. As I walk through brooklyn, compton or whatever, I wonder why black folks don't wanna stick together. We talk about justice, and how little we get, Yet black men be killin black men for talkin sh*t... (right...right...) (heres the one, that one that always talkin sh*t...) [gun shots] How the hell we supposed to wage war against the powers that be When we are still our own worst enemy. Thats why I'm the masta, I'm tryin to tell you kid, Ill break it down simply, right back to the freestiddyle. I'm bashin --breakin-- Ill fry you like bacon. I don't smoke blunts, boy, you must be mistaken. I do smoke mics and mcs that come widdem. I hit em and get em and sit em down, then I spit em Out some lyrical phlegm from deep within me. I'm not john, but I'm madd-en Ill give you moore than demi. I burn like tobasco, your a**, yo don't beg (? ) Miss crabtree, stumpy said you had a wooden leg. So I brought my axe and a box full of termites, Cuz I got your big, fat booty in my sites. I'm not from philly, but I fly like an eagle, My rap book is thicker than a catalog from spiegel. A regal, I do not drive, I drive a jeep and I should say drove one, some suckers caught me sleepin. But next time they break in my car to rip the ase off, Ill have a pitbull waitin to rip their freakin face off. (sick em boy...) [barking and yelling] Refrain 4x (on and on and on, its on... on and on and on, its on...)