[Speaking:]

It's 2005

I'm 'bout to blow some heads off, man

I got so much shit 'bout to hit these dudes, man

Feast (?) classic, Juju Mob classic, y'know I mean?

My team is comin', Good Hands



[Verse 1:]

Yo, I give it to you straight, never speak fakely

Shareef T lace it, they say he's crazy

I'm only Lost Cauze when I got the .380

This is my costume, no moniker to make you eat daisies

None needed, son weeded

For some reason, on the mic I become some demon

Other emcees eat they lungs even

You think not? Come see 'em

From the stage you will run fleein'

I need more cowbell, throw in your towels

You make the crowd swell with bottles

Thrown at you, I'm the grave robber, throne snatcher

Don't matter, I attack like throat cancer

You can't rap, but you's a dope dancer

A hype man, go adjust my mic stand

I roll with ???, who love to make your life stop

You've been dismissed, go home and get your shine box



[Chorus:]

[Echo:] It's the Cauze, it's the Cauze...

[Scratch: KRS-One] Emcees act like they don't know

[Scratch: 50 Cent] I'm the underground king, and I ain't been crowned

[Scratch: Styles P] Motherfuckers hit your knees and just pray to the Lord



[Verse 2:]

No pimp cup, no gators (?)

No trucker hat, no blazer

I'm from the city that spawned Joe Frasier

Bernard Hopkins, stay the fuck out of my zone, haters

Now I'm no Messiah, I'm no savior

But when the mic's in my clutch there's no greater

It's like a vato loco with no razor

A black man's Kool Aid with no flavor

ESPN with no Raiders

Or the Lost Cauze out for sale with no takers

That movie +Tron+ with no lasers

An episode of +Oz+ with no rapers

The X Games with no skaters

You get the gist; my only exercise is sit and twist

I'm just as quick as Michael Vick

Cuz I'm getting' blitzed like a three-four defense

Won't be tackled in the Three Four Precinct



[Chorus]



[Verse 3:]

I'm the omen in rhyme form

You soft as nylon

I spit hot fire like Dilawn, Dilawn, Dilawn

Mind gone from buds 's big as pine cones

The Lost Cauze is a motherfucking cyclone

Get caught in my path, and I divide homes

You don't want to die, homes

I talk with my nine chrome

He's highly upset

Rush the stage with pure rage if you deny me a set

I ain't playin', dog

This is beast music, this is Reef music

Treat your face like bongos, this the beat movement

Daddy-yo the beat bruiser, leave your teeth looser

You'll be foolish to not cop that +Feast+, stupid

Cuz this a banger-banger, cock the thing and bang ya

Danger, danger, one remains in the chamber

Hot wire hanger, bash your face in

Now go fuck yourself like masturbation

The father of this bastard nation

I'm hard like chemistry and math equations

Leave your face full of holes like the mask of Jason

I'm past the waitin', getting at these bastards hatin'

I'm sicker than a faggot Hatian filling his veins with H hits

My gun plastic like some fake tits (Nigga!)

I don't make hits, I just crap classics that make you want to break shit

you fake bitch!



Bleh! Bleh! Bleh! Bleh! Bleh!



[Talking]



White Boy 1: Everybody's always talking about the legends, they talking

about Biggie and Pac (White Boy 2: Yeah, fuck those two) and Pun and Big L

No one's talking about the real legends (WB2: Hell yeah)

The guys on top right now (WB2: Hell yeah)

I'm talking about the Sages (WB2: Sage? Sage is down with the Klan!)

The Aesops, ??? Combustion right here, are you kidding me?

[WB3:] (Old school rap is doo doo, dude, it's garbage)

He's the next big thing, listen to him

[WB3:] I need, like, beats that don't even sound like beats

[WB1:] Yeah, exactly, they should be like “ERr Err err err”

[WB3:] Who wants to dance anymore anyways?

[WB2:] It's the blacks

[WB3:] Yo, yo, rip that shit Combustion



[Combustion: Rapping]



Yo, yo, yo, yo

My rhyme style you can't even measure

Cuz I flow like Helium (WB2: Mmm) at 40 times atmospheric pressure (WB2:

Here he goes)

I'm super fluid nice, can't rap but I can almost write (WB2: Uh ha)

Can't fight but I can almost bite

Hate Bush cuz he's stealing my rights

Actually I just like to gripe (WB2: West Hartford, what!) because my skin is

white

I hate my dad, see, cuz he don't like

Paying for me to sit on my ass and smoke this pipe (WB2: Go John)

That's what I do because I'm so bored

Got this super silver haze weed that you can't afford (WB2: Connecticut!)

And I'm crazy fly like the Wright Brothers

Nerd rapper of the yo, yo, yo man like Tom and Dick's mothers

Might be ??? ugly, but I'm “Mister Lover Lover”



[Black A&R:]

Man, that shit is corny, man. Ok?

Let me tell you somethin'

My artist Corleone Capone from Big Dog Entertainment (Barks)

He gon' eat yo' shit...

Ay, Corleone, tells these niggaz how the street, hood, y'know'm sayin'

Rich, big time, killa crack niggaz do it



[Corleone:]

Yo, yo this young Corleone Capone a force of AKA Real Clinton

y'feel what I'm sayin'?

[Rapping:] Yo, I cop the coke, pop the toast

Keep a bottle of Cris to pop and toast

Cook the crack, cut the crack, I sell the crack

I love the crack! Then I mix and I got crack, nigga

Keep a gat that'll put it in your back, nigga

Four shots you'll be layin' out flat, nigga, OH!

Pop the top, drop the top

Cop a grip, chop the block

About to cop the block, the block is hot

The block is a block that block the blocks, OH! Feel me?!

I rock the rocks, that rock the rocks

Then drop the drop, cop the shot, the pop...

I got shots for tops, niggaz!



[Talking: with A&R talking shit in the background]

Young Corleone Capone a force of AKA Real Clinton, y'know'm sayin'?

JFK Jr. of this rap shit, y'know'm sayin'?

I got bricks comin' out my ass, nigga, y'know'm sayin'?

I sleep bricks, nigga, y'know'm sayin'?

I got cocaine everywhere, nigga, yea!