"The real. *chattering and clapping in background* Remix" *echoes*
 "More MCing and DJing... from your own mind  ya know?"
 "I   I guess right now we should start the show..."
 Verse one: Guru
 Please baby  we gettin G's you know the steez  baby
 Ain't no if's  no and's  no but's  or no maybe's
 The Bible drive you crazy  almost break your neck
 A game will take respect, remember Just To Get a Rep?
 Sportin baggy pants macking, backing finance
 Bold figure, older nigger, yo, watch me advance
 Used to be a small cat, now I'm all that and more
 Putting pressure on, catching rep from the dog, your insecure
 Inject like them fucking doctors
 Moving in silk, more milk than Louis Pasteur
 Ask yourself, do you wanna mess with this?
 The specialist, turn the page, I bring the rage when I spits
 Then this neck gets what, I bring the crowd into a frenzy
 I leave you sleeping with the fishes, see how these niggaz envy?
 Authentic vocal tone transmitting like a Mobile phone
 Welcome to my ghetto, my man, hope you can hold your own
 I take your first name to the, last name curve
 Against grimy, stimy, who you?, preventing the herd
 I ain't seen you out here, and you ain't got no clout here
 Your style don't come across, your lost about here
 At 5' 8 and 3/4", I be the warrior, sargeant, Gang Starr
 Rippin clubs and bars
 Super star-studded, fine rings and flooded
 On the low, counting dough in this rap life, I love it
 You know my steez...
 "You know my steez" *echoes* --> Method Man
 "Let em know, do your thing, dog." "Keep it live."
 *scratching*
 (Lady of Rage: check, check, check it out y'all)
 "Killer Bees, y'all" --> Method Man
 Verse two: Lady of Rage
 You best to back off, we back off ways since the baddest dog
 Your the wack dog cause of your half-assed songs
 I bring it you, keep it rough and rugged, Seven Lucky
 Motherfuckers act like they hate it, but motherfucking love it
 I'm the raw dame, in this war game, don't get your jaw chained
 ?, I ain't no joke and I ain't joking
 You know my steez
 When I stand and deliv-de-liv-deliver-er-ies
 And tag MC's like "freeze"
 And burn them like the 3rd-degrees
 And wouldn't you agree, that the three of us put together
 Make it more better to make more cheddar
 Puffing high in ?Four Centers?
 And ask Beretta, who got cheese?
 On the spot, who's the doc, like that man, ugh, ?Martin Keys?
 More keys, cause when it comes to me and The Guru
 Like my man Charlie Brown said, the rest of y'all is doo-doo
 The butcher, the baker, time to meet your Maker
 Send you to your place, you ain't nothing but a faker
 Your cheasy, but ?treesy?, next to me your measly
 Believe me, I'll beat that ass so sick, I'll make ya queasy
 Now easy, Premier scratch that shit like three
 Three men and a lady, and, ugh, you know my steez...
 "You know my steez" --> Method Man
 "Let em know, do your thing, dog." "Keep it live."
 *repeat 3X*
 (Kurupt: Yo, yo, yo...)
 "The mic..."
 Verse three: Kurupt
 The monotone, nigga melodic, microphone
 Poetical Mag-milly from Philly, ill-ly syndrome
 Clouds will form, whip thoughts to windstorm
 And the young Gang Starr posse formin in full
 Kick off, like a guage (guage) ?, stage
 In a seek-and-destroy mission to burn and blaze
 Vanish a few
 K-U-R-U-P-T, R-A-G-E, and Guru
 Lets simplify it, just don't try it
 When I recite, ignite mics, my voice 'ill cause a riot
 I talk it, I live it I don't give up, I give it
 I bring it, bust it, don't sing it
 Get in your vein melt mics and spit flames
 Get in your brain and blow like propane
 Yo Premier
 (What?) Tell these niggaz this our year
 Broke through like a breeze
 Murder MC's with ease
 You know my steez *echoes