(feat. Mark Live)



Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens Manhattan, Staten Island

Keith!  In the house



[Kool Keith]

It ain't about the bitch with a wig like she comin from China

Y'all fronted in rented Benzes with Avis on 'em

No breakfast, I'm goin home, fuck Chelsea or diner

Let the guys with the chrome buckets expose the cuffs, be a co-signer

I'm in your ass man, close like your Starter jacket liner

Dr. J sharper, plug your asshole up with a tub stopper

Your wife's a New York City Breaker

Your baby's mom is a pop-locker, know the metropolitan area

Custodian nigga, you sanitation worker shit cleaner

Floor mopper, look down on the city with binoculars

Piss out at choppers

Defecate 80 thousand feet in the air

I flip your small game, take your small urban territory

Put the street in the air

My shit rise, increase like subway fare

Scuffle your dinner wear

Your sneaker line ain't makin it, I piss on four pair

You know the big-head boy from the projects, retarded motherfucker

You know you be in child care, you better stay there

Your crew get picked up with shitty diapers from daycare

Your foe be his crib death

The top rappers receive hot dogs up they ass, they get F

Mark flush the toilet, you shit next

Expand your stomach range with tummy pains

Shit in the back of your Bentley when it rains

Leave your wooden panels with shit stains

Throw the turds out the windows

Watch them bounce in the carpool lanes

Hot 97



[Chorus: x4]

The shit expand, over your Jacob the diamond watch

The penis is loose, we piss in your hand



[Mark Live]

Yo... yo where's the block at?  Uhh

They say 106th & Park is on, I'm mad, fuck it it's on

I haven't heard a hard record in years, uhh

Everybody dancin, Harlem Shakin, strip Free naked

And put a pole up, and watch the ratings go up

And if AJ steps, take his Jacob and slap off the makeup

I'm in the crowd like Lee Malvo, with a sniper rifle

A hockey mask, a butcher knife

Yo who knows what I'll do

They sellin dreams with a rap battle - uh-huh

Look - yeah - you rappers are kids, and rappin with a rap rattle

... nobody ever comes out - that's right

No twelve inches, no fires, no jets

Early retired, no links

No chains, no videos, no baguettes - uhh

"Don't Speak," uh-huh - I'm gettin Gwen Stefani

She's tossed up, sellin pussy like every week

So don't fight me - uhh, you can hype me - that's right

I'm liable to go out with a terrorist style

I'm liable to flow out with a terrible style

Viacom bought you (suckers)

I'm outta here nigga I'm changin the dial



[Kool Keith]

Hot 97



[Chorus]



[Kool Keith]

No more cars and shit, we suicide bombers

Nigga, walk up in your radio station

We get gas from the gas station nigga

You better ask public relations, blow out your DJ booth

With hats off, like motherfuckin Dr. Seuss

No buckets, strictly bombs under the North Face goose

Caught you with acid baby

We put it in your motherfuckin orange juice

Fuck a turned up cap

How bout a burnt up motherfuckin baseball cap

With a whack-ass rap

We detonate with three sticks of dynamite through your turntables

Blow out your ass crack

You ain't the motherfuckin pimp, you ain't the motherfuckin mack

Review this right, you gon' drink a daquiri

Are you gon' come back to me

Are you gon' get smacked from me

Fuck around look how you act to me... bitch... Hot 97



[Chorus]